SB 

la 

9 


TALES  OF 
MEN  AND  GHOSTS 

BY 
EDITH    WHARTON 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

MCMX 


COPTBIQHT,    1910,   BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER7S   SONS 


Published  October,  1910 


^ 


The  Bolted  Door 
His  Father's 


3\ 

•N  /  t 

CONTENTS 
I 

II 


/m 

r&e  Daunt  Diana  101 


IV 


Full  Circle 151 

VI 
The  Legend 193 

VII 
The  Eyes  ^ 241 

VIII 

The  Blond  Beast 

A  fterward 


IX 


275 
321 


The  Letters  375 


THE   BOLTED    DOOR 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 


HUBERT  GRANICE,  pacing  the  length  of  his  pleas- 
ant lamp-lit  library,  paused  to  compare  his  watch 
with  the  clock  on  the  chimney-piece. 
Three  minutes  to  eight. 

In  exactly  three  minutes  Mr.  Peter  Ascham,  of  the 

eminent  legal  firm  of  Ascham  and  Pettilow,  would 

have  his  punctual  hand  on  the  door-bell  of  the  flat. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  reflect  that  Ascham  was  so  punctual 

—  the  suspense  was  beginning  to  make  his  host  nervous. 

>•    And  the  sound  of  the  door-bell  would  be  the  beginning 

v.    of  the  end  —  after  that  there'd  be  no  going  back,  by 

NJ.    God  —  no  going  back! 

\  Granice  resumed  his  pacing.  Each  time  he  reached 
^  the  end  of  the  room  opposite  the  door  he  caught  his 
reflection  in  the  Florentine  mirror  above  the  fine  old 
credence  he  had  picked  up  at  Dijon  —  saw  himself 
spare,  quick-moving,  carefully  brushed  and  dressed,  but 
furrowed,  gray  about  the  temples,  with  a  stoop  which 
he  corrected  by  a  spasmodic  straightening  of  the 
shoulders  whenever  a  glass  confronted  him:  a  tired 
middle-aged  man,  baffled,  beaten,  worn  out. 

[3] 


THE  BOLTED  DOOR 

As  he  summed  himself  up  thus  for  the  third  or  fourth 
time  the  door  opened  and  he  turned  with  a  thrill  of 
relief  to  greet  his  guest.  But  it  was  only  the  man-servant 
who  entered,  advancing  silently  over  the  mossy  surface 
of  the  old  Turkey  rug.  *• ",  ^>  *  Z 

"Mr.  Ascham  telephones,  sir,  to  say  he's  unexpect- 

4f      <>  rfv  fit 
edly  detained  and  can't  be  here 'till  eight-thirty." 

Granice  made  a  curt  gesture  of  annoyance.  It  was 
becoming  harder  and  harder  for  him  to  control  these 
reflexes.  He  turned  on  his  heel,  tossing  to  the  servant 
over  his  shoulder:  "Very  good.  Put  off  dinner." 

Down  his  spine  he  felt  the  man's  injured  stare.  Mr. 
Granice  had  always  been  so  mild-spoken  to  his  people 
— no  doubt  the  odd  change  in  his  manner  had  already 
been  noticed  and  discussed  below  stairs.  And  very 
likely  they  suspected  the  cause.  He  stood  drumming 
on  the  writing-table  till  he  heard  the  servant  go  out; 
then  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  propping  his  el- 
bows on  the  table  and  resting  his  chin  on  his  locked 
hands. 

Another  half  hour  alone  with  it! 

He  wondered  irritably  what  could  have  detained  his 
guest.  Some  professional  matter,  no  doubt — the  punc- 
tilious lawyer  would  have  allowed  nothing  less  to  inter- 
fere with  a  dinner  engagement,  more  especially  since 
Granice,  in  his  note,  had  said:  "I  shall  want  a  little 
business  chat  afterward." 

[4] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

But  what  professional  matter  could  have  come  up  at 
that  unprofessional  hour?  Perhaps  some  other  soul  in 
misery  had  called  on  the  lawyer;  and,  after  all,  Granice's 
note  had  given  no  hint  of  his  own  need!  No  doubt 
Ascham  thought  he  merely  wanted  to  make  another 
change  in  his  will.  Since  he  had  come  into  his  little 
property,  ten  years  earlier,  Granice  had  been  perpetu- 
ally tinkering  with  his  will. 

Suddenly  another  thought  pulled  him  up,  sending 
a  flush  to  his  temples.  He  remembered  a  word  he  had 
tossed  to  the  lawyer  some  six  weeks  earlier,  at  the 
Century  Club.  "Yes — my  play's  as  good  as  taken.  I 
shall  be  calling  on  you  soon  to  go  over  the  contract. 
Those  theatrical  chaps  are  so  slippery — I  won't  trust 
anybody  but  you  to  tie  the  knot  for  me!"  That,  of 
course,  was  what  Ascham  would  think  he  was  wanted 
for.  Granice,  at  the  idea,  broke  into  an  audible  laugh 
— a  queer  stage-laugh,  like  the  cackle  of  a  baffled  villain 
in  a  melodrama.  The  absurdity,  the  unnaturalness  of 
the  sound  abashed  him,  and  he  compressed  his  lips 
angrily.  Would  he  take  to  soliloquy  next  ? 

He  lowered  his  arms  and  pulled  open  the  upper 
drawer  of  the  writing-table.  In  the  right-hand  corner 
lay  a  manuscript,  bound  in  paper  folders,  and  tied 
with  a  string  beneath  which  a  letter  had  been  slipped. 
Next  to  the  manuscript  was  a  revolver.  Granice  stared 
a  moment  at  these  oddly  associated  objects;  then  he 

[5] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

took  the  letter  from  under  the  string  and  slowly  began 
to  open  it.  He  had  known  he  should  do  so  from  the 
moment  his  hand  touched  the  drawer.  Whenever  his 
eye  fell  on  that  letter  some  relentless  force  compelled 
him  to  re-read  it. 

It  was  dated  about  four  weeks  back,  under  the  letter- 
head of  "The  Diversity  Theatre." 

"My  DEAR  MR.  GRANICE: 

"I  have  given  the  matter  my  best  consideration  for 
the  last  month,  and  it's  no  use — the  play  won't  do. 
I  have  talked  it  over  with  Miss  Melrose — and  you 
know  there  isn't  a  gamer  artist  on  our  stage — and  I 
regret  to  tell  you  she  feels  just  as  I  do  about  it.  It  isn't 
the  poetry  that  scares  her — or  me  either.  We  both  want 
to  do  all  we  can  to  help  along  the  poetic  drama — we 
believe  the  public's  ready  for  it,  and  we're  willing  to 
take  a  big  financial  risk  in  order  to  be  the  first  to  give 
them  what  they  want.  But  we  don't  believe  they  could 
be  made  to  want  this.  The  fact  is,  there  isn't  enough 
drama  in  your  play  to  the  allowance  of  poetry — the 
thing  drags  all  through.  You've  got  a  big  idea,  but  it's 
not  out  of  swaddling  clothes. 

"If  this  was  your  first  play  I'd  say:  Try  again.  But 

it  has  been  just  the  same  with  all  the  others  you've 

shown  me.   And  you  remember  the  result  of  'The 

Lee  Shore,'  where  you  carried  all  the  expenses  of  pro- 

[6] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

duction  yourself,  and  we  couldn't  fill  the  theatre  for 
a  week.  Yet  'The  Lee  Shore'  was  a  modern  problem 
play — much  easier  to  swing  than  blank  verse.  It  isn't 
as  if  you  hadn't  tried  all  kinds ' 

Granice  folded  the  letter  and  put  it  carefully  back 
into  the  envelope.  Why  on  earth  was  he  re-reading  it, 
when  he  knew  every  phrase  in  it  by  heart,  when  for 
a  month  past  he  had  seen  it,  night  after  night,  stand 
out  in  letters  of  flame  against  the  darkness  of  his 
sleepless  lids? 

"It  has  been  just  the  same  with  all  the  others  you've 
shown  me" 

That  was  the  way  they  dismissed  ten  years  of  pas- 
sionate unremitting  work! 

"  You  remember  the  result  of  'The  Lee  SJiore.'" 
Good  God — as  if  he  were  likely  to  forget  it!  He  re- 
lived it  all  now  in  a  drowning  flash:  the  persistent  re- 
jection of  the  play,  his  resolve  to  put  it  on  at  his  own 
cost,  to  spend  ten  thousand  dollars  of  his  inheritance 
on  testing  his  chance  of  success — the  fever   of   prepa- 
ration, the  dry-mouthed  agony  of  the  "first  night,"  the 
flat  fall,  the  stupid  press,  his  secret  rush  to  Europe  to 
escape  the  condolence  of  his  friends! 
"It  isn't  as  if  you  hadn't  tried  all  kinds" 
No — he  had  tried  all  kinds:  comedy,  tragedy,  prose 
and   verse,   the   light   curtain-raiser,   the  short  sharp 

[7] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

drama,  the  bourgeois-realistic  and  the  lyrical-romantic 
—finally  deciding  that  he  would  no  longer  "prostitute 
his  talent"  to  win  popularity,  but  would  impose  on  the 
public  his  own  theory  of  art  in  the  form  of  five  acts  of 
blank  verse.  Yes,  he  had  offered  them  everything— 
and  always  with  the  same  result. 

Ten  years  of  it — ten  years  of  dogged  work  and  un- 
relieved failure.  The  ten  years  from  forty  to  fifty — the 
best  ten  years  of  his  life !  And  if  one  counted  the  years 
before,  the  years  of  dreams,  assimilation,  preparation — 
then  call  it  half  a  man's  life-time:  half  a  man's  life- 
time thrown  away! 

And  what  was  he  to  do  with  the  remaining  half? 
Well,  he  had  settled  that,  thank  God!  He  turned  and 
glanced  anxiously  at  the  clock.  Ten  minutes  past  eight 
— only  ten  minutes  had  been  consumed  in  that  stormy 
rush  through  his  past!  And  he  must  wait  another  twenty 
minutes  for  Ascham.  It  was  one  of  the  worst  symp- 
toms of  his  case  that,  in  proportion  as  he  had  grown  to 
shrink  from  human  company,  he  dreaded  more  and 
more  to  be  alone.  .  .  But  why  the  devil  was  he  waiting 
for  Ascham ?•  Why  didn't  he  cut  the  knot  himself? 
Since  he  was  so  unutterably  sick  of  the  whole  business, 
why  did  he  have  to  call  in  an  outsider  to  rid  him  of  this 
nightmare  of  living  ? 

He  opened  the  drawer  again  and  laid  his  hand  on 
the  revolver.  It  was  a  slim  ivory  toy— just  the  instru- 
[8] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

ment  for  a  tired  sufferer  to  give  himself  a  "  hypodermic  " 
with.  Granice  raised  it  in  one  hand,  while  with  the 
other  he  felt  under  the  thin  hair  at  the  back  of  his 
head,  between  the  ear  and  the  nape.  He  knew  just 
where  to  place  the  muzzle:  he  had  once  got  a  surgeon 
to  show  him.  And  as  he  found  the  spot,  and  lifted 
the  revolver  to  it,  the  inevitable  phenomenon  occurred. 
The  hand  that  held  the  weapon  began  to  shake,  the 
tremor  passed  into  his  arm,  his  heart  gave  a  leap  which 
sent  up  a  wave  of  deadly  nausea  to  his  throat,  he  smelt 
the  powder,  he  sickened  at  the  crash  of  the  bullet 
through  his  skull,  and  a  sweat  broke  out  over  his 
forehead  and  ran  down  his  quivering  face.  .  . 

He  laid  away  the  revolver  and,  pulling  out  his  hand- 
kerchief, passed  it  tremulously  over  his  brow  and  tem- 
ples. It  was  of  no  use — he  knew  he  could  never  do  it  in 
that  way.  His  attempts  at  self-destruction  were  as  futile 
as  his  snatches  at  fame!  He  couldn't  make  himself  a 
real  life,  and  he  couldn't  get  rid  of  the  life  he  had. 
And  that  was*  why  he  had  sent  for  Ascham  to  help 
him.  .  . 

The  lawyer,  over  the  cheese  and  Burgundy,  began 
to  excuse  himself  for  his  delay. 

"I  didn't  like  to  say  anything  while  your  man  was 
about;  but  the  fact  is,  I  was  sent  for  on  a  rather  unusual 

matter " 

[9] 


THE  BOLTED  DOOR 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,"  said  Granice  cheerfully.  He 
was  beginning  to  feel  the  reaction  that  food  and  com- 
pany always  produced  in  him.  It  was  not  any  re- 
covered pleasure  in  life  that  he  felt,  but  only  a  deeper 
withdrawal  into  himself.  It  was  easier  to  go  on  auto- 
matically with  the  social  gestures  than  to  uncover  to 
any  human  eye  the  abyss  within  him. 

"My  dear  fellow,  it's  sacrilege  to  keep  a  dinner 
waiting — especially  the  production  of  an  artist  like 
yours."  Mr.  Ascham  sipped  his  Burgundy  luxuriously. 
"But  the  fact  is,  Mrs.  Ashgrove  sent  for  me." 

Granice  raised  his  head  with  a  movement  of  surprise. 
For  a  moment  he  was  shaken  out  of  his  self -absorption. 
"Mrs.  Ashgrove?" 

Ascham  smiled.  "I  thought  you'd  be  interested;  I 
know  your  passion  for  causes  celebres.  And  this  prom- 
ises to  be  one.  Of  course  it's  out  of  our  line  entirely — 
we  never  touch  criminal  cases.  But  she  wanted  to  con- 
sult me  as  a  friend.  Ashgrove  was  a  distant  connection 
of  my  wife's.  And,  by  Jove,  it  is  a  queer  case!"  The 
servant  re-entered,  and  Ascham  snapped  his  lips  shut. 
Would  the  gentlemen  have  their  coffee  in  the  dining- 
room? 

"No — serve  it  in  the  library,"  said  Granice,  rising. 
He  led  the  way  back  to  the  curtained  confidential  room. 
He  was  really  curious  to  hear  what  Ascham  had  to  tell 
him 

[10] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

While  the  coffee  and  cigars  were  being  served  he 
fidgeted  about,  glancing  at  his  letters — the  usual  mean- 
ingless notes  and  bills — and  picking  up  the  evening 
paper.  As  he  unfolded  it  a  headline  caught  his  eye. 

"ROSE  MELROSE  WANTS  TO  PLAY  POETRY. 
"THINKS  SHE  HAS  FOUND  HER  POET." 

He  read  on  with  a  thumping  heart — found  the  name 
of  a  young  author  he  had  barely  heard  of,  saw  the  title 
of  a  play,  a  "poetic  drama,"  dance  before  his  eyes,  and 
dropped  the  paper,  sick,  disgusted.  It  was  true,  then- 
she  was  "game" — it  was  not  the  manner  but  the  matter 
she  mistrusted! 

Granice  turned  to  the  servant,  who  seemed  to  be 
purposely  lingering.  "I  shan't  need  you  this  evening, 
Flint.  I'll  lock  up  myself." 

He  fancied  that  the  man's  acquiescence  implied  sur- 
prise. What  was  going  on,  Flint  seemed  to  wonder, 
that  Mr.  Granice  should  want  him  out  of  the  way? 
Probably  he  would  find  a  pretext  for  coming  back  to 
see.  Granice  suddenly  felt  himself  enveloped  in  a 
network  of  espionage. 

As  the  door  closed  he  threw  himself  into  an  armchair 
and  leaned  forward  to  take  a  light  from  Ascham  's  cigar. 

"Tell  me  about  Mrs.  Ashgrove,"  he  said,  seeming 
to  himself  to  speak  stiffly,  as  if  his  lips  were  cracked. 
[  11] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

"Mrs.  Ashgrove?  Well,  there's  not  much  to  tell" 

"And  you  couldn't  if  there  were?"  Granice  smiled. 

"Probably  not.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  wanted  my 
advice  about  her  choice  of  counsel.  There  was  nothing 
especially  confidential  in  our  talk." 

"And  what's  your  impression,  now  you've  seen  her  ?" 

"My  impression  is,  very  distinctly,  that  nothing  will 
ever  be  known" 

"Ah ?"  Granice  murmured,  puffing  at  his  cigar. 

"I'm  more  and  more  convinced  that  whoever  poi- 
soned Ashgrove  knew  his  business,  and  will  consequently 
never  be  found  out.  That's  a  capital  cigar  you've  given 
me." 

"You  like  it?  I  get  them  over  from  Cuba."  Granice 
examined  his  own  reflectively.  "Then  you  believe  in 
the  theory  that  the  clever  criminals  never  are  caught  ?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  Look  about  you — look  back  for 
the  last  dozen  years — none  of  the  big  murder  problems 
are  ever  solved."  The  lawyer  ruminated  behind  his 
blue  cloud.  "Why,  take  the  instance  in  your  own 
family:  I'd  forgotten  I  had  an  illustration  at  hand! 
Take  old  Joseph  Lenman's  murder — do  you  suppose 
that  will  ever  be  explained  ?  " 

As  the  words  dropped  from  Ascham's  lips  his  host 

looked  about  the  library,  and  every  object  in  it  stared 

back  at  him  with  a  stale  unescapable  familiarity.  How 

sick  he  was  of  looking  at  that  room!  It  was   as  dull 

[  12] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

as  the  face  of  a  wife  one  has  tired  of.  He  cleared  his 
throat  slowly;  then  he  turned  his  head  to  the  lawyer 
and  said:  "I  could  explain  the  Lenman  murder  my- 
self." 

Ascham's  eye  kindled:  he  shared  Granice's  interest 
in  criminal  cases. 

"By  Jove!  You've  had  a  theory  all  this  time?  It's 
odd  you  never  mentioned  it.  Go  ahead  and  tell  me. 
There  are  certain  features  in  the  Lenman  case  not 
unlike  this  Ashgrove  affair,  and  your  idea  may  be  a 
help." 

Granice  paused  and  his  eye  reverted  instinctively 
to  the  table  drawer  in  which  the  revolver  and  the  manu- 
script lay  side  by  side.  What  if  he  were  to  trj  another 
appeal  to  Rose  Melrose?  Then  he  looked  at  the  notes 
and  bills  on  the  table,  and  the  horror  of  taking  up  again 
the  lifeless  routine  of  life — of  performing  the  same 
automatic  gestures  another  day — dispelled  his  fleeting 
impulse. 

"It's  not  an  idea.  I  know  who  murdered  Joseph 
Lenman." 

Ascham  settled  himself  comfortably  in  his  chair,  pre- 
pared for  enjoyment. 

"You  know  ?  Well,  who  did  ?"  he  laughed. 

"I  did,"  said  Granice,  rising  to  his  feet. 

He  stood  before  Ascham,  and  the  lawyer  lay  back, 
staring  up  at  him.  Then  he  broke  into  another  laugh. 
[  13  ] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

"Why,  this  is  glorious!  You  murdered  him,  did  you  ? 
To  inherit  his  money,  I  suppose?  Better  and  better! 
Go  on,  my  boy!  Unbosom  yourself!  Tell  me  all  about 
it!  Confession  is  good  for  the  soul." 

Granice  waited  till  the  lawyer  had  shaken  the  last 
peal  of  laughter  from  his  throat;  then  he  repeated 
doggedly:  "I  murdered  him." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  for  a  long  moment, 
and  this  time  Ascham  did  not  laugh. 

"Granice!" 

"I  murdered  him — to  get  his  money,  as  you  say." 

There  was  another  pause,  and  Granice,  with  a  vague 
sense  of  amusement,  saw  his  guest's  look  gradually 
change  from  pleasantry  to  apprehension. 

"What's  the  joke,  my  dear  fellow?  I  fail  to  see." 

"It's  not  a  joke.  It's  the  truth.  I  murdered  him." 
He  had  spoken  painfully  at  first,  as  if  there  were  a  knot 
in  his  throat;  but  each  time  he  repeated  the  words  he 
found  they  were  easier  to  say. 

Ascham  laid  down  his  cigar.  "What's  the  matter? 
Aren't  you  well?  What  on  earth  are  you  driving 
at?" 

"I'm  perfectly  well.  But  I  murdered  my  cousin, 
Joseph  Lenman,  and  I  want  it  known  that  I  murdered 
him." 

"  You  want  it  known  ?" 

"Yes.  That's  why  I  sent  for  you.  I'm  sick  of  living, 
[  14] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

and  when  I  try  to  kill  myself  I  funk  it."  He  spoke  quite 
naturally  now,  as  if  the  knot  in  his  throat  had  been 
untied. 

"Good  Lord  —  good  Lord,"  the  lawyer  gasped. 

"But  I  suppose,"  Granice  continued,  "there's  no 
doubt  this  would  be  murder  in  the  first  degree?  I'm 
sure  of  the  chair  if  I  own  up  ?  " 

Ascham  drew  a  long  breath;  then  he  said  slowly: 
"Sit  down,  Granice.  Let's  talk." 


II 

GRANICE  told  his  story  simply,  connectedly. 

He  began  by  a  quick  survey  of  his  early  years  — 
the  years  of  drudgery  and  privation.  His  father,  a 
charming  man  who  could  never  say  "no,"  had  so 
signally  failed  to  say  it  on  certain  essential  occasions 
that  when  he  died  he  left  an  illegitimate  family  and  a 
mortgaged  estate.  His  lawful  kin  found  themselves 
hanging  over  a  gulf  of  debt,  and  young  Granice,  to 
support  his  mother  and  sister,  had  to  leave  Harvard 
and  bury  himself  at  eighteen  in  a  broker's  office.  He 
loathed  his  work,  and  he  was  always  poor,  always 
worried  and  often  ill.  A  few  years  later  his  mother 
died,  but  his  sister,  a  helpless  creature,  remained  on 
his  hands.  His  own  health  gave  out,  and  he  had  to 
go  away  for  six  months,  and  work  harder  than  ever 
[15] 


THE  BOLTED  DOOR 

when  he  came  back.  He  had  no  knack  for  business, 
no  head  for  figures,  no  dimmest  insight  into  the  mys- 
teries of  commerce.  He  wanted  to  travel  and  write— 
those  were  his  inmost  longings.  And  as  the  years 
dragged  on,  and  he  neared  middle-age  without  making 
any  more  money,  or  acquiring  any  firmer  health,  a 
sick  despair  possessed  him.  He  tried  writing,  but  he 
always  came  home  from  the  office  so  tired  that  his 
brain  could  not  work.  For  half  the  year  he  did  not 
reach  his  dim  up-town  flat  till  after  dark,  and  could 
only  "brush  up"  for  dinner,  and  afterward  lie  on  the 
lounge  with  his  pipe,  while  his  sister  droned  through 
the  evening  paper.  Sometimes  he  spent  an  evening  at 
the  theatre;  or  he  dined  out,  or,  more  rarely,  strayed 
off  with  an  acquaintance  or  two  in  quest  of  what  is 
known  as  "pleasure."  And  in  summer,  when  he  and 
Kate  went  to  the  sea-side  for  a  month,  he  dozed  through 
the  days  in  utter  weariness.  Once  he  fell  in  love  with 
a  charming  girl — but  what  had  he  to  offer  her,  in  God's 
name  ?  She  seemed  to  like  him,  and  in  common  decency 
he  had  to  drop  out  of  the  running.  Apparently  no  one 
replaced  him,  for  she  never  married,  but  grew  stoutish, 
grayish,  philanthropic — yet  how  sweet  she  had  been 
when  he  first  kissed  her!  One  more  wasted  life,  he 
reflected.  .  . 

But  the  stage  had  always  been  his  master-passion. 
He  would  have  sold  his  soul  for  the  time  and  freedom 
[  161 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

to  write  plays!  It  was  in  him- — he  could  not  remember 
when  it  had  not  been  his  deepest-seated  instinct.  As 
the  years  passed  it  became  a  morbid,  a  relentless  ob- 
session— yet  with  every  year  the  material  conditions 
were  more  and  more  against  it.  He  felt  himself  grow- 
ing middle-aged,  and  he  watched  the  reflection  of  the 
process  in  his  sister's  wasted  face.  At  eighteen  she  had 
been  pretty,  and  as  full  of  enthusiasm  as  he.  Now  she 
was  sour,  trivial,  insignificant — she  had  missed  her 
chance  of  life.  And  she  had  no  resources,  poor  creature, 
was  fashioned  simply  for  the  primitive  functions  she 
had  been  denied  the  chance  to  fulfil!  It  exasperated  him 
to  think  of  it — and  to  reflect  that  even  now  a  little 
travel,  a  little  health,  a  little  money,  might  transform 
her,  make  her  young  and  desirable.  .  .  The  chief  fruit 
of  his  experience  was  that  there  is  no  such  fixed  state 
as  age  or  youth — there  is  only  health  as  against  sick- 
ness, wealth  as  against  poverty;  and  age  or  youth  as  the 
outcome  of  the  lot  one  draws. 

At  this  point  in  his  narrative  Granice  stood  up,  and 
went  to  lean  against  the  mantel-piece,  looking  down  at 
Ascham,  who  had  not  moved  from  his  seat,  or  changed 
his  attitude  of  spell-bound  attention. 

"Then  came  the  summer  when  we  went  to  Wrenfield 

to  be  near  old  Lenman — my  mother's  cousin,  as  you 

know.  Some  of  the  family  always  mounted  guard  over 

him — generally  a  niece  or  so.  But  that  year  they  were 

[  17] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

all  scattered,  and  one  of  the  nieces  offered  to  lend  us 
her  cottage  if  we'd  relieve  her  of  duty  for  two  months. 
It  was  a  nuisance  for  me,  of  course,  for  Wrenfield  is 
two  hours  from  town;  but  my  mother,  who  was  a  slave 
to  family  observances,  had  always  been  good  to  the  old 
man,  so  it  was  natural  that  we  should  be  called  on — 
and  there  was  the  saving  of  rent  and  the  good  air  for 
Kate.  So  we  went. 

"  You  never  knew  Joseph  Lenman  ?  Well,  picture 
to  yourself  an  amoeba,  or  some  primitive  organism  of 
that  sort,  under  a  Titan's  microscope.  He  was  large, 
undifferentiated,  inert — since  I  could  remember  him 
he  had  done  nothing  but  take  his  temperature  and  read 
the  Churchman.  Oh,  and  cultivate  melons — that  was 
his  hobby.  Not  vulgar  out-of-door  melons — his  were 
grown  under  glass.  He  had  acres  of  it  at  Wrenfield— 
his  big  kitchen-garden  was  surrounded  by  blinking 
battalions  of  greenhouses.  And  in  nearly  all  of  them 
melons  were  grown:  early  melons  and  late,  French, 
English,  domestic — dwarf  melons  and  monsters:  every 
shape,  colour  and  variety.  They  were  petted  and  nursed 
like  Children— a  staff  of  trained  attendants  waited  on 
them.  I'm  not  sure  they  didn't  have  a  doctor  to  take 
their  temperature;  at  any  rate  the  place  was  full  of 
thermometers.  And  they  didn't  sprawl  on  the  ground 
like  ordinary  melons;  they  were  trained  against  the 
glass  like  nectarines,  and  each  melon  hung  in  a  net 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

which  sustained  its  weight  and  left  it  free  on  all  sides 
to  the  sun  and  air.  .  . 

"It  used  to  strike  me  sometimes  that  old  Lenman 
was  just  like  one  of  his  own  melons — the  pale-fleshed 
English  kind.  His  life,  apathetic  and  motionless,  hung 
in  a  net  of  gold,  in  an  equable  warm  ventilated 
atmosphere,  high  above  earthly  worries.  The  cardinal 
rule  of  his  existence  was  not  to  let  himself  be  'wor- 
ried.' .  .  I  remember  his  advising  me  to  try  it  myself, 
one  day  when  I  spoke  to  him  about  Kate's  bad  health, 
and  her  need  of  a  change.  'I  always  make  it  a  rule  not 
to  let  myself  worry,'  he  said  complacently.  'It's  the 
worst  thing  for  the  liver — and  you  look  to  me  as  if  you 
had  a  liver.  Take  my  advice  and  be  cheerful.  You'll 
make  yourself  happier  and  others  too.'  And  all  he  had 
to  do  was  to  write  a  cheque,  and  send  the  poor  girl  off 
for  a  holiday! 

"The  hardest  part  of  it  was  that  the  money  half- 
belonged  to  us  already.  The  old  skin-flint  only  had  it 
for  life,  in  trust  for  us  and  the  others.  But  his  life  was  a 
good  deal  sounder  than  mine  or  Kate's — and  one  could 
picture  him  taking  extra  care  of  it  for  the  joke  of  keep- 
ing us  waiting.  I  always  felt  that  the  sight  of  our  hungry 
eyes  was  a  tonic  to  him. 

"Well,  I  tried  to  see  if  I  couldn't  reach  him  through 
his  vanity.  I  flattered  him,  feigned  a  passionate  interest 
in  his  melons.  And  he  was  taken  in,  and  used  to  dis- 
[  19  ] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

course  on  them  by  the  hour.  On  fine  days  he  was  driven 
to  the  green-houses  in  his  pony-chair,  and  waddled 
through  them,  prodding  and  leering  at  the  fruit,  like 
a  fat  Turk  in  his  seraglio.  When  he  bragged  to  me  of 
the  expense  of  growing  them  I  was  reminded  of  a 
hideous  old  Lothario  bragging  of  what  his  pleasures 
cost.  And  the  resemblance  was  completed  by  the  fact 
that  he  couldn't  eat  as  much  as  a  mouthful  of  his 
melons — had  lived  for  years  on  buttermilk  and  toast. 
'But,  after  all,  it's  my  only  hobby— why  shouldn't  I 
indulge  it?'  he  said  sentimentally.  As  if  I'd  ever  been 
able  to  indulge  any  of  mine!  On  the  keep  of  those 
melons  Kate  and  I  could  have  lived  like  gods.  .  . 

"One  day  toward  the  end  of  the  summer,  when 
Kate  was  too  unwell  to  drag  herself  up  to  the  big  house, 
she  asked  me  to  go  and  spend  the  afternoon  with  cousin 
Joseph.  It  was  a  lovely  soft  September  afternoon — a 
day  to  lie  under  a  Roman  stone-pine,  with  one's  eyes 
on  the  sky,  and  let  the  cosmic  harmonies  rush  through 
one.  Perhaps  the  vision  was  suggested  by  the  fact  that, 
as  I  entered  cousin  Joseph's  hideous  black  walnut 
library,  I  passed  one  of  the  under-gardeners,  a  handsome 
Italian,  who  dashed  out  in  such  a  hurry  that  he  nearly 
knocked  me  down.  I  remember  thinking  it  queer  that 
the  fellow,  whom  I  had  often  seen  about  the  melon- 
houses,  did  not  bow  to  me  or  even  seem  to  see  me. 

"Cousin  Joseph  sat  in  his  usual  seat,  behind  the 
[  20] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

darkened  windows,  his  fat  hands  folded  on  his  pro- 
tuberant waistcoat,  the  last  number  of  the  Churchman 
at  his  elbow,  and  near  it,  on  a  huge  dish,  a  melon — 
the  fattest  melon  I'd  ever  seen.  As  I  looked  at  it  I 
pictured  the  ecstasy  of  contemplation  from  which  I 
must  have  roused  him,  and  congratulated  myself  on 
finding  him  in  such  a  mood,  since  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  to  ask  him  a  favour.  Then  I  noticed  that  his  face, 
instead  of  looking  as  calm  as  an  egg-shell,  was  distorted 
and  whimpering — and  without  stopping  to  greet  me 
he  pointed  passionately  to  the  melon. 

"Look  at  it,  look  at  it — did  you  ever  see  such  a 
beauty  ?  Such  firmness — roundness — such  delicious 
smoothness  to  the  touch  ? '  It  was  as  if  he  had  said  '  she ' 
instead  of  '  it, '  and  when  he  put  out  his  senile  hand  and 
touched  the  melon  I  positively  had  to  look  the  other 
way. 

"Then  he  told  me  what  had  happened.  The  Italian 
under-gardener,  who  had  been  specially  recommended 
for  the  melon-houses — though  it  was  against  my  cousin's 
principles  to  employ  a  Papist — had  been  assigned  to 
the  care  of  the  monster:  for  it  had  revealed  itself,  early 
in  its  existence,  as  destined  to  become  a  monster,  to 
surpass  its  plumpest  pulpiest  sisters,  carry  off  prizes 
at  agricultural  shows,  and  be  photographed  and  cele- 
brated in  every  gardening  paper  in  the  land.  The  Italian 
had  done  well — seemed  to  have  a  sense  of  responsibility. 
[21  ] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

And  that  very  morning  he  had  been  ordered  to  pick  the 
melon,  which  was  to  be  shown  next  day  at  the  county 
fair,  and  to  bring  it  in  for  Mr.  Lenman  to  gaze  on  its 
blonde  virginity.  But  in  picking  it,  what  had  the  damned 
scoundrelly  Jesuit  done  but  drop  it— drop  it  crash  on 
the  spout  of  a  watering-pot,  so  that  it  received  a  deep 
gash  in  its  firm  pale  rotundity,  and  was  henceforth  but 
a  bruised,  ruined,  fallen  melon  ? 

"The  old  man's  rage  was  fearful  in  its  impotence- 
he  shook,  spluttered  and  strangled  with  it.  He  had  just 
had  the  Italian  up  and  had  sacked  him  on  the  spot, 
without  wages  or  character — had  threatened  to  have 
him  arrested  if  he  was  ever  caught  prowling  about 
Wrenfield.  'By  God,  and  I'll  do  it— I'll  write  to  Wash- 
ington— I'll  have  the  pauper  scoundrel  deported!  I'll 
show  him  what  money  can  do!'  As  likely  as  not  there 
was  some  murderous  Blackhand  business  under  it — it 
would  be  found  that  the  fellow  was  a  member  of  a 
'gang.'  Those  Italians  would  murder  you  for  a  quarter. 
He  meant  to  have  the  police  look  into  it.  .  .  And  then 
he  grew  frightened  at  his  own  excitement.  'But  I  must 
calm  myself,'  he  said.  He  took  his  temperature,  rang 
for  his  drops,  and  turned  to  the  Churchman.  He  had 
been  reading  an  article  on  Nestorianism  when  the 
melon  was  brought  in.  He  asked  me  to  go  on  with  it, 
and  I  read  to  him  for  an  hour,  in  the  dim  close  room, 
with  a  fat  fly  buzzing  stealthily  about  the  fallen  melon. 
[  22  ] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

"All  the  while  one  phrase  of  the  old  man's  buzzed  in 
my  brain  like  the  fly  about  the  melon.  '/'//  show  him 
what  money  can  do ! '  Good  heaven !  If  /  could  but  show 
the  old  man!  If  I  could  make  him  see  his  power  of 
giving  happiness  as  a  new  outlet  for  his  monstrous 
egotism!  I  tried  to  tell  him  something  about  my  situa- 
tion and  Kate's — spoke  of  my  ill-health,  my  unsuc- 
cessful drudgery,  my  longing  to  write,  to  make  myself 
a  name — I  stammered  out  an  entreaty  for  a  loan.  'I 
can  guarantee  to  repay  you,  sir — I've  a  half-written  play 
as  security.  .  .' 

"I  shall  never  forget  his  glassy  stare.  His  face  had 
grown  as  smooth  as  an  egg-shell  again — his  eyes  peered 
over  his  fat  cheeks  like  sentinels  over  a  slippery  ram- 
part. 

"A  half-written  play — a  play  of  yours  as  security?' 
He  looked  at  me  almost  fearfully,  as  if  detecting  the 
first  symptoms  of  insanity.  'Do  you  understand  any- 
thing of  business?'  he  enquired.  I  laughed  and  an- 
swered: 'No,  not  much.' 

"He  leaned  back  with  closed  lids.  'All  this  excite- 
ment has  been  too  much  for  me,'  he  said.  'If  you'll 
excuse  me,  I'll  prepare  for  my  nap.'  And  I  stumbled 
out  of  the  room,  blindly,  like  the  Italian." 

Granice  moved  away  from  the  mantel-piece,  and 
walked  across  to  the  tray  set  out  with  decanters  and 
soda-water.  He  poured  himself  a  tall  glass  of  soda- 
[  23  ] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

water,   emptied   it,   and   glanced   at   Ascham's    dead 
cigar. 

"Better  light  another,"  he  suggested. 

The  lawyer  shook  his  head,  and  Granice  went  on 
with  his  tale.  He  told  of  his  mounting  obsession — how 
the  murderous  impulse  had  waked  in  him  on  the  in- 
stant of  his  cousin's  refusal,  and  he  had  muttered  to 
himself:  "By  God,  if  you  won't,  I'll  make  you."  He 
spoke  more  tranquilly  as  the  narrative  proceeded,  as 
though  his  rage  had  died  down  once  the  resolve  to  act 
on  it  was  taken.  He  applied  his  whole  mind  to  the  ques- 
tion of  how  the  old  man  Was  to  be  "disposed  of."  Sud- 
denly he  remembered  the  outcry:  "Those  Italians  would 
murder  you  for  a  quarter!"  But  no  definite  project  pre- 
sented itself:  he  simply  waited  for  an  inspiration. 

Granice  and  his  sister  moved  to  town  a  day  or  two 
afterward.  But  the  cousins,  who  had  returned,  kept  them 
informed  of  the  old  man's  condition.  One  day,  about 
three  weeks  later,  Granice,  on  getting  home,  found 
Kate  excited  over  a  report  from  Wrenfield.  The  Italian 
had  been  there  again — had  somehow  slipped  into  the 
house,  made  his  way  up  to  the  library,  and  "used 
threatening  language."  The  house-keeper  found  cousin 
Joseph  gasping,  the  whites  of  his  eyes  showing 
"something  awful."  The  doctor  was  sent  for,  and  the 
attack  warded  off;  and  the  police  had  ordered  the 
Italian  from  the  neighbourhood. 
[  24  ] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

But  cousin  Joseph,  thereafter,  languished,  had 
"nerves,"  and  lost  his  taste  for  toast  and  buttermilk. 
The  doctor  called  in  a  colleague,  and  the  consultation 
amused  and  excited  the  old  man — he  became  once  more 
an  important  figure.  The  medical  men  reassured  the  • 
family — too  completely ! — and  to  the  patient  they  recom- 
mended a  more  varied  diet:  advised  him  to  take  what- 
ever "tempted  him."  And  so  one  day,  tremulously, 
prayerfully,  he  decided  on  a  tiny  bit  of  melon.  It  was 
brought  up  with  ceremony,  and  consumed  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  house-keeper  and  a  hovering  cousin;  and 
twenty  minutes  later  he  was  dead.  .  . 

"But  you  remember  the  circumstances,"  Granice 
went  on;  "how  suspicion  turned  at  once  on  the  Italian  ? 
In  spite  of  the  hint  the  police  had  given  him  he  had  been 
seen  hanging  about  the  house  since  'the  scene.'  It  was 
said  that  he  had  tender  relations  with  the  kitchen-maid, 
and  the  rest  seemed  easy  to  explain.  But  when  they 
looked  round  to  ask  him  for  the  explanation  he  was 
gone — gone  clean  out  of  sight.  He  had  been  'warned' 
to  leave  Wrenfield,  and  he  had  taken  the  warning  so 
to  heart  that  no  one  ever  laid  eyes  on  him  again." 

Granice  paused.  He  had  dropped  into  a  chair  oppo- 
site the  lawyer's,  and  he  sat  for  a  moment,  his  head 
thrown  back,  looking  about  the  familiar  room.  Every- 
thing in  it  had  grown  grimacing  and  alien,  and  each 
strange  insistent  object  seemed  craning  forward  from 
its  olace  to  hear  him. 

[  25  ] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

"It  was  I  who  put  the  stuff  in  the  melon,"  he  said. 
"And  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  sorry  for  it.  This 
isn't  'remorse,'  understand.  I'm  glad  the  old  skin-flint 
is  dead— I'm  glad  the  others  have  their  money.  But 
mine's  no  use  to  me  any  more.  My  sister  married  mis- 
erably, and  died.  And  I've  never  had  what  I  wanted." 

Ascham  continued  to  stare;  then  he  said:  "What  on 
earth  was  your  object,  then  ?  " 

"Why,  to  get  what  I  wanted — what  I  fancied  was  in 
reach!  I  wanted  change,  rest,  life,  for  both  of  us — 
wanted,  above  all,  for  myself,  the  chance  to  write!  I 
travelled,  got  back  my  health,  and  came  home  to  tie 
myself  up  to  my  work.  And  I've  slaved  at  it  steadily 
for  ten  years  without  reward — without  the  most  distant 
hope  of  success!  Nobody  will  look  at  my  stuff.  And 
now  I'm  fifty,  and  I'm  beaten,  and  I  know  it."  His 
chin  dropped  forward  on  his  breast.  "I  want  to  chuck 
the  whole  business,"  he  ended. 


Ill 

IT  was  after  midnight  when  Ascham  left. 

His  hand  on  Granice's  shoulder,  as  he  turned  to 
go— "District  Attorney  be  hanged;  see  a  doctor,  see 
a  doctor!"  he  had  cried;  and  so,  with  an  exaggerated 
laugh,  had  pulled  on  his  coat  and  departed. 

Granice  turned  back  into  the  library.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  him  that  Ascham  would  not  believe  his 
[26] 


S 


>- 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

story.  For  three  hours  he  had  explained,  elucidated,  pa- 
tiently and  painfully  gone  over  every  detail — but  with- 
out once  breaking  down  the  iron  incredulity  of  the 
lawyer's  eye. 

At  first  Ascham  had  feigned  to  be  convinced — but 
that,  as  Granice  now  perceived,  was  simply  to  get  him 
to  expose  himself,  to  entrap  him  into  contradictions. 
And  when  the  attempt  failed,  when  Granice  trium- 
phantly met  and  refuted  each  disconcerting  question, 
the  lawyer  dropped  the  mask,  and  broke  out  with 
a  good-humoured  laugh:  "By  Jove,  Granice  you'll 
write  a  successful  play  yet.  The  way  you've  worked 
this  all  out  is  a  marvel." 

Granice  swung  about  furiously — that  last  sneer  about 
the  play  inflamed  him.  Was  all  the  world  in  a  conspiracy 
to  deride  his  failure  ? 

"I  did  it,  I  did  it,"  he  muttered,  his  rage  spending 
itself  against  the  impenetrable  surface  of  the  other's 
mockery;  and  Ascham  answered  with  a  quieting  smile: 
"Ever  read  any  of  those  books  on  hallucinations?  I've 
got  a  fairly  good  medico-legal  library.  I  could  send  you 
one  or  two  if  you  like.  .  ." 

Left  alone,  Granice  cowered  down  in  the  chair  before 
his  writing-table.  He  understood  that  Ascham  thought 
him  off  his  head. 

"  Good  God — what  if  they  all  think  me  crazy  ?  " 
[  27] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

The  horror  of  it  broke  out  over  him  in  a  cold  sweat 
—he  sat  there  and  shook,  his  eyes  hidden  in  his  hands. 
But  gradually,  as  he  began  to  rehearse  his  story  for 
the  thousandth  time,  he  saw  again  how  incontrovertible 
it  was,  and  felt  sure  that  any  criminal  lawyer  would  be- 
lieve him. 

"That's  the  trouble — Ascham's  not  a  criminal  law- 
yer. And  then  he's  a  friend.  What  a  fool  I  was  to  talk 
to  a  friend!  Even  if  he  did  believe  me,  he'd  never  let 
me  see  it — his  instinct  would  be  to  cover  the  whole 
thing  up.  .  .  But  in  that  case — if  he  did  believe  me — he 
might  think  it  a  kindness  to  get  me  shut  up  in  an  asy- 
lum. .  ."  Granice  began  to  tremble  again.  "Good 
heaven!  If  he  should  bring  in  an  expert — one  of  those 
damned  alienists!  Ascham  and  Pettilow  can  do  any- 
thing— their  word  always  goes.  If  Ascham  drops  a  hint 
that  I'd  better  be  shut  up,  I'll  be  in  a  strait-jacket 
by  to-morrow !  And  he'd  do  it  from  the  kindest  motives 
—be  quite  right  to  do  it  if  he  thinks  I'm  a  murderer!" 

The  vision  froze  him  to  his  chair.  He  pressed  his  fists 
to  his  bursting  temples  and  tried  to  think.  For  the  first 
time  he  hoped  that  Ascham  had  not  believed  his  story. 

"But  he  did— he  did!  I  can  see  it  now— I  noticed 
what  a  queer  eye  he  cocked  at  me.  Good  God,  what 
shall  I  do— what  shall  I  do?" 

He  started  up  and  looked  at  the  clock.  Half-past 
one.  What  if  Ascham  should  think  the  case  urgent, 
[28] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

rout  out  an  alienist,  and  come  back  with  him  ?  Granice 
jumped  to  his  feet,  and  his  gesture  brushed  the  morn- 
ing paper  from  the  table.  As  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up 
the  movement  started  a  new  train  of  association. 

He  sat  down  again,  and  reached  for  the  telephone 
book  in  the  rack  by  his  chair. 

"Give  me  three-o-ten  .  .  .  yes." 

The  new  idea  in  his  mind  had  revived  his  energy. 
He  would  act — act  at  once.  It  was  only  by  thus 
planning  ahead,  committing  himself  to  some  unavoid- 
able line  of  conduct,  that  he  could  pull  himself 
through  the  meaningless  days.  Each  time  he  reached 
a  fresh  decision  it  was  like  coming  out  of  a  foggy  wel- 
tering sea  into  a  calm  harbour  with  lights.  One  of  the 
queerest  phases  of  his  long  agony  was  the  relief  pro- 
duced by  these  momentary  lulls. 

"That  the  office  of  the  Investigator?  Yes?  Give 
me  Mr.  Denver,  please.  .  .  Hallo,  Denver.  .  .  Yes,  Hu- 
bert Granice.  .  .  Just  caught  you  ?  Going  straight 
home  ?  Can  I  come  and  see  you  .  .  .  yes,  now  .  .  .  have 
a  talk  ?  It's  rather  urgent  .  .  .  yes,  might  give  you  some 
first-rate  'copy.' ..  All  right!"  He  hung  up  the  re- 
ceiver with  a  laugh.  It  had  been  a  happy  thought  to 
call  up  the  editor  of  the  Investigator — Robert  Denver 
was  the  very  man  he  needed.  .  . 

Granice  put  out  the  lights  in  the  library — it  was 
odd  how  the  automatic  gestures  persisted! — went  into 
[29] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

the  hall,  put  on  his  hat  and  overcoat,  and  let  him- 
self out  of  the  flat.  In  the  hall,  a  sleepy  elevator  boy 
blinked  at  him  and  then  dropped  his  head  on  his  arms. 
Granice  passed  out  into  the  street.  At  the  corner  of 
Fifth  Avenue  he  hailed  a  cab,  and  called  out  an 
up-town  address.  The  long  thoroughfare  stretched 
before  him,  dim  and  deserted,  like  an  ancient  avenue 
of  tombs.  But  from  Denver's  house  a  friendly  beam 
fell  on  the  pavement;  and  as  Granice  sprang  from  his 
cab  the  editor's  electric  turned  the  corner. 

The  two  men  grasped  hands,  and  Denver,  feeling 
for  his  latch-key,  ushered  Granice  into  the  hall. 

"  Disturb  me  ?  Not  a  bit.  You  might  have,  at  ten  to- 
morrow morning  . .  .  but  this  is  my  liveliest  hour  .  .  . 
you  know  my  habits  of  old." 

Granice  had  known  Robert  Denver  for  fifteen  years 
— watched  his  rise  through  all  the  stages  of  journalism 
to  the  Olympian  pinnacle  of  the  Investigator's  editorial 
office.  In  the  thick-set  man  with  grizzling  hair  there 
were  few  traces  left  of  the  hungry-eyed  young  reporter 
who,  on  his  way  home  in  the  small  hours,  used  to 
"bob  in"  on  Granice,  while  the  latter  sat  grinding  at 
his  plays.  Denver  had  to  pass  Granice's  flat  on  the 
way  to  his  own,  and  it  became  a  habit,  if  he  saw  a 
light  in  the  window,  and  Granice's  shadow  against 
the  blind,  to  go  in,  smoke  a  pipe,  and  discuss  the 
universe. 

[30] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

"Well — this  is  like  old  times — a  good  old  habit  re- 
versed." The  editor  smote  his  visitor  genially  on  the 
shoulder.  "Reminds  me  of  the  nights  when  I  used  to 
rout  you  out.  .  .  How's  the  play,  by  the  way  ?  There 
is  a  play,  I  suppose  ?  It's  as  safe  to  ask  you  that  as  to 
say  to  some  men :  '  How's  the  baby  ? ' ' 

Denver  laughed  good-naturedly,  and  Granice  thought 
how  thick  and  heavy  he  had  grown.  It  was  evident, 
even  to  Granice's  tortured  nerves,  that  the  words  had 
not  been  uttered  in  malice — and  the  fact  gave  him  a 
new  measure  of  his  insignificance.  Denver  did  not  even 
know  that  he  had  been  a  failure!  The  fact  hurt  more 
than  Ascham's  irony. 

"Come  in — come  in."  The  editor  led  the  way  into  a 
small  cheerful  room,  where  there  were  cigars  and  de- 
canters. He  pushed  an  arm-chair  toward  his  visitor, 
and  dropped  into  another  with  a  comfortable  groan. 

"Now,  then — help  yourself.  And  let's  hear  all 
about  it." 

He  beamed  at  Granice  over  his  pipe-bowl,  and  the 
latter,  lighting  his  cigar,  said  to  himself:  "Success 
makes  men  comfortable,  but  it  makes  them  stupid." 

Then  he  turned,  and  began:  "Denver,  I  want  to  tell 
you— ^" 

The    clock    ticked  rhythmically  on  the  mantel-piece. 

The   room   was    gradually    filled    with    drifting    blue 

[31  ] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

layers  of  smoke,  and  through  them  the  editor's  face 
came  and  went  like  the  moon  through  a  moving  sky. 
Once  the  hour  struck— then  the  rhythmical  ticking  be- 
gan again.  The  atmosphere  grew  denser  and  heavier, 
and  beads  of  perspiration  began  to  roll  from  Granice's 
forehead. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  open  the  window?" 

"No.  It  is  stuffy  in  here.  Wait— I'll  do  it  myself." 
Denver  pushed  down  the  upper  sash,  and  returned  to 
his  chair.  "Well— go  on,"  he  said,  filling  another  pipe. 
His  composure  exasperated  Granice. 

"There's  no  use  in  my  going  on  if  you  don't  be- 
lieve me." 

The  editor  remained  unmoved.  "Who  says  I  don't 
believe  you?  And  how  can  I  tell  till  you've  finished  ?" 

Granice  went  on,  ashamed  of  his  outburst.  "It  was 
simple  enough,  as  you'll  see.  From  the  day  the  old 
man  said  to  me  'Those  Italians  would  murder  you  for 
a  quarter'  I  dropped  everything  and  just  worked  at 
my  scheme.  It  struck  me  at  once  that  I  must  find  a 
way  of  getting  to  Wrenfield  and  back  in  a  night — and 
that  led  to  the  idea  of  a  motor.  A  motor — that  never 
occurred  to  you  ?  You  wonder  where  I  got  the  money, 
I  suppose.  Well,  I  had  a  thousand  or  so  put  by,  and  I 
nosed  around  till  I  found  what  I  wanted — a  second- 
hand racer.  I  knew  how  to  drive  a  car,  and  I  tried  the 
thing  and  found  it  was  all  right.  Times  were  bad,  and 
[32] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

I  bought  it  for  my  price,  and  stored  it  away.  Where? 
Why,  in  one  of  those  no-questions-asked  garages  where 
they  keep  motors  that  are  not  for  family  use.  I  had  a 
lively  cousin  who  had  put  me  up  to  that  dodge,  and  I 
looked  about  till  I  found  a  queer  hole  where  they  took 
in  my  car  like  a  baby  in  a  foundling  asylum.  .  .  Then 
I  practised  running  to  Wrenfield  and  back  in  a  night. 
I  knew  the  way  pretty  wrell,  for  I'd  done  it  often  with 
the  same  lively  cousin — and  in  the  small  hours,  too. 
The  distance  is  over  ninety  miles,  and  on  the  third 
trial  I  did  it  under  two  hours.  But  my  arms  were  so 
lame  that  I  could  hardly  get  dressed  the  next  morning. 

"Well,  then  came  the  report  about  the  Italian's 
threats,  and  I  saw  I  must  act.  .  .  I  meant  to  break 
into  the  old  man's  room,  shoot  him,  and  get  away 
again.  It  was  a  big  risk,  but  I  thought  I  could  man- 
age it.  Then  we  heard  that  he  was  ill — that  there'd 
been  a  consultation.  Perhaps  the  fates  were  going  to 
do  it  for  me!  Good  Lord,  if  that  could  only  be!  .  ." 

Gran  ice  stopped  and  wiped  his  forehead:  the  open 
window  did  not  seem  to  have  cooled  the  room. 

"Then  came  word  that  he  was  better;  and  the  day 
after,  when  I  came  up  from  my  office,  I  found  Kate 
laughing  over  the  news  that  he  was  to  try  a  bit  of  melon. 
The  house-keeper  had  just  telephoned  her — all  Wren- 
field  was  in  a  flutter.  The  doctor  himself  had  picked 
out  the  melon,  one  of  the  little  French  ones  that  are 
[33] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

hardly  bigger  than  a  large  tomato — and  the  patient 
was  to  eat  it  at  his  breakfast  the  next  morning. 

"In  a  flash  I  saw  my  chance.  It  was  a  bare  chance, 
no  more.  But  I  knew  the  ways  of  the  house — I  was 
sure  the  melon  would,  be  brought  in  over  night  and 
put  in  the  pantry  ice-box.  If  there  were  only  one 
melon  in  the  ice-box  I  could  be  fairly  sure  it  was  the 
one  I  wanted.  Melons  didn't  lie  around  loose  in  that 
house — every  one  was  known,  numbered,  catalogued. 
The  old  man  was  beset  by  the  dread  that  the  servants 
would  eat  them,  and  he  took  all  sorts  of  mean  precau- 
tions to  prevent  it.  Yes,  I  felt  pretty  sure  of  my  melon 
.  .  .  and  poisoning  was  much  safer  than  shooting.  It 
would  have  been  the  devil  and  all  to  get  into  his  bed- 
room without  his  rousing  the  house;  but  I  ought  to  be 
able  to  break  into  the  pantry  without  much  trouble. 

"It  was  a  cloudy  night,  too— everything  served  me. 
I  dined  quietly,  and  sat  down  at  my  desk.  Kate  had 
one  of  her  usual  headaches,  and  went  to  bed  early.  As 
soon  as  she  was  gone  I  slipped  out.  I  had  got  together 
a  sort  of  disguise— red  beard  and  queer-looking  ulster. 
I  shoved  them  into  a  bag,  and  went  round  to  the  garage. 
There  was  no  one  there  but  a  half-drunken  machinist 
whom  I'd  never  seen  before.  That  served  me,  too.  They 
were  always  changing  machinists,  and  this  new  fellow 
didn't  even  bother  to  ask  if  the  car  belonged  to  me.  It 
was  a  very  easy-going  place.  .  . 
[34] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

"Well,  I  jumped  in,  ran  up  Broadway,  and  let  the 
car  go  as  soon  as  I  was  out  of  Harlem.  Dark  as  it  was, 
I  could  trust  myself  to  strike  a  sharp  pace.  In  the 
shadow  of  a  wood  I  stopped  a  second  and  got  into  the 
beard  and  ulster.  Then  away  again — it  was  just  eleven- 
thirty  when  I  got  to  Wrenfield. 

"I  left  the  car  in  a  lane  behind  the  Lenman  place, 
and  slipped  through  the  kitchen-garden.  The  melon- 
houses  winked  at  me  through  the  dark — I  remember 
thinking  that  they  knew  what  I  wanted  to  know.  .  . 
By  the  stable  a  dog  came  out  growling — but  he  nosed 
me  out,  jumped  on  me,  and  went  back.  .  .  The  house 
was  as  dark  as  the  grave.  I  knew  everybody  went  to 
bed  by  ten.  But  there  might  be  a  prowling  servant — 
the  kitchen-maid  might  have  come  down  to  let  in  her 
Italian.  I  had  to  risk  that,  of  course.  I  crept  around 
by  the  back  door  and  hid  in  the  shrubbery.  Then  I 
listened.  It  was  all  as  silent  as  death.  I  crossed  over 
to  the  house,  pried  open  the  pantry  window,  and 
climbed  in.  I  had  a  little  electric  lamp  in  my  pocket, 
and  shielding  it  with  my  cap  I  groped  my  way  to  the 
ice-box,  opened  it  —  and  there  was  the  little  French 
melon  .  .  .  only  one. 

"I  stopped  to  listen — I  was  quite  cool.  Then  I  pulled 

out  my  bottle  of  stuff  and  my  syringe,  and  gave  each 

section  of  the  melon  a  hypodermic.  It  was  all  done 

inside  of  three  minutes — at  ten  minutes  to  twelve  I 

[35  ] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

was  back  in  the  car./I  got  out  of  the  lane  as  quietly 
as  I  could,  struck  a  back  road,  and  let  the  car  out  as 
soon  as  I  was  beyond  the  last  houses.  I  only  stopped 
once  on  the  way  in,  to  drop  the  beard  and  ulster  into 
a  pond.  I  had  a  big  stone  ready  to  weight  them  with 
and  they  went  down  plump,  like  a  dead  body — and  at 
two  I  was  back  at  my  desk." 

Granice  stopped  speaking  and  looked  across  the 
smoke-fumes  at  his  listener;  but  Denver's  face  re- 
mained inscrutable. 

At  length  he  said:  "Why  did  you  want  to  tell  me 
this?" 

The  question  startled  Granice.  He  was  about  to 
explain,  as  he  had  explained  to  Ascham;  but  suddenly 
it  occurred  to  him  that  if  his  motive  had  not  seemed 
convincing  to  the  lawyer  it  would  carry  much  less 
weight  with  Denver.  Both  were  successful  men,  and 
success  does  not  understand  the  subtle  agony  of  failure. 
Granice  cast  about  for  another  reason. 

"Why,  I — the  thing  haunts  me  .  .  .  remorse,  I  sup- 
pose you'd  call  it.  .  ." 

Denver  struck  the  ashes  from  his  empty  pipe. 

"Remorse?  Bosh!"  he  said  energetically. 

Granice's  heart  sank.  "You  don't  believe  in — re- 
morse?" 

"Not  an  atom:  in  the  man  of  action.  The  mere  fact 
of  your  talking  of  remorse  proves  to  me  that  you're 
[36] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

not  the  man  to  have  planned  and  put  through  such  a 
job." 

Granice  groaned.  "Well — I  lied  to  you  about  re- 
morse. I've  never  felt  any." 

Denver's  lips  tightened  sceptically  about  his  fresmy- 
filled  pipe.  "What  was  your  motive,  then?  You  must 
have  had  one." 

"I'll  tell  you — "  And  Granice  began  once  more  to  re- 
hearse the  story  of  his  failure,  of  his  loathing  for  life. 
'*  Don't  say  you  don't  believe  me  this  time  .  .  .  that  this 
isn't  a  real  reason!"  he  stammered  out  as  he  ended. 

Denver  meditated.  "No,  I  won't  say  that.  I've  seen 
too  many  queer  things.  There's  always  a  reason  for 
wanting  to  get  out  of  life — the  wonder  is  that  we  find 
so  many  for  staying  in!" 

Granice's  heart  grew  light.  "Then  you  do  believe 
me?" 

"Believe  that  you're  sick  of  the  job?  Yes.  And  that 
you  haven't  the  nerve  to  pull  the  trigger?  Oh,  yes — 
that's  easy  enough,  too.  But  all  that  doesn't  make  you 
a  murderer — though  I  don't  say  it  proves  you  could 
never  have  been  one." 

"I  have  been  one,  Denver — I  swear  to  you." 

"Perhaps."  Again  the  journalist  mused.  "Just  tell 
me  one  or  two  things." 

"Oh,  go  ahead.  You  won't  stump  me!"  Granice 
heard  himself  say  with  a  laugh. 
[37] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

"Well — how  did  you  make  all  those  trial  trips  with- 
out exciting  your  sister's  curiosity?  I  knew  your  night 
habits  pretty  well  at  that  time,  remember.  You  were 
seldom  out  late.  Didn't  the  change  in  your  ways 
surprise  her?" 

"No;  because  she  was  away  at  the  time.  She  went  to 
pay  several  visits  in  the  country  after  we  came  back 
from  Wrenfield,  and  had  only  been  in  town  a  night  or 
two  before — before  I  did  the  job." 

"And  that  night  she  went  to  bed  with  a  headache  ?" 

"Yes — blinding.  She  didn't  know  anything  when  she 
had  that  kind.  And  her  room  was  at  the  back  of  the 
flat." 

There  was  another  pause  in  Denver's  interrogatory. 
"And  when  you  got  back— she  didn't  hear  you?  You 
got  in  without  her  knowing  it?" 

"Yes.  I  went  straight  to  my  work — took  it  up  at  the 
word  where  I'd  left  off— why,  Denver,  don't  you  re- 
member?" Granice  passionately  interjected. 

"Remember ?" 

"Yes;  how  you  found  me— when  you  looked  in 
that  morning,  between  two  and  three  .  .  .  your  usual 
hour..?" 

"Yes,"  the  editor  nodded. 

Granice  gave  a  short  laugh.  "In  my  old  coat— with 
my  pipe:   looked   as   if  I'd   been  working   all   night, 
didn't  I  ?  Well,  I  hadn't  been  in  my  chair  ten  minutes! " 
[38] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

Denver  uncrossed  his  legs  and  then  crossed  them 
again.  "I  didn't  know  whether  you  remembered  that." 

"What?" 

"My  coming  in  that  particular  night — or  morning." 

Granice  swung  round  in  his  chair.  "Why,  man  alive! 
That's  why  I'm  here  now.  Because  it  was  you  who 
spoke  for  me  at  the  inquest,  when  they  looked  round 
to  see  what  all  the  old  man's  heirs  had  been  doing  that 
night — you  who  testified  to  having  dropped  in  and 
found  me  at  my  desk  as  usual.  ..  I  thought  that 
would  appeal  to  your  journalistic  sense  if  nothing  else 
would ! " 

Denver  smiled.  "Oh,  my  journalistic  sense  is  still 
susceptible  enough — and  the  idea's  picturesque,  I  grant 
you :  asking  the  man  who  proved  your  alibi  to  establish 
your  guilt." 

"That's  it — that's  it!"  Granice's  laugh  had  a  ring 
of  triumph. 

"Well,  but  how  about  the  other  chap's  testimony— 
I  mean  that  young  doctor:  what  was  his  name?  Ned 
Ranney.  Don't  you  remember  my  testifying  that  I'd 
met  him  at  the  elevated  station,  and  told  him  I  was  on 
my  way  to  smoke  a  pipe  with  you,  and  his  saying:  'All 
right;  you'll  find  him  in.  I  passed  the  house  two  hours 
ago,  and  saw  his  shadow  against  the  blind,  as  usual.' 
And  the  lady  with  the  toothache  in  the  flat  across  the 
way:  she  corroborated  his  statement,  you  remember." 
[39] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

"Yes;  I  remember." 

"Well,  then  ?" 

"Simple  enough.  Before  starting  I  rigged  up  a  kind 
of  mannikin  with  old  coats  and  a  cushion — something 
to  cast  a  shadow  on  the  blind.  All  you  fellows  were 
used  to  seeing  my  shadow  there  in  the  small  hours — I 
counted  on  that,  and  knew  you'd  take  any  vague  out- 
line as  mine." 

"Simple  enough,  as  you  say.  But  the  woman  with  the 
toothache  saw  the  shadow  move — you  remember  she 
said  she  saw  you  sink  forward,  as  if  you'd  fallen  asleep." 

"Yes;  and'  she  was  right.  It  did  move.  I  suppose 
some  extra-heavy  dray  must  have  jolted  by  the  flimsy 
building — at  any  rate,  something  gave  my  mannikin  a 
jar,  and  when  I  came  back  he  had  sunk  forward,  half 
over  the  table." 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  the  two  men. 
Granice,  with  a  throbbing  heart,  watched  Denver  refill 
his  pipe.  The  editor,  at  any  rate,  did  not  sneer  and  flout 
him.  After  all,  journalism  gave  a  deeper  insight  than 
the  law  into  the  fantastic  possibilities  of  life,  prepared 
one  better  to  allow  for  the  incalculableness  of  human 
impulses. 

"Well?"  Granice  faltered  out, 

Denver  stood  up  with  a  shrug.  "Look  here,  man— 
what's  wrong  with  you  *  Make  a  clean  breast  of  it! 
Nerves  gone  to  smash?  I'd  like  to  take  you  to  see  a 
[40] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

chap  I  know — an  ex-prize-fighter — who's  a  wonder  at 
pulling  fellows  in  your  state  out  of  their  hole — 

"Oh,  oh — "  Granice  broke  in.  He  stood  up  also, 
and  the  two  men  eyed  each  other.  "  You  don't  believe 
me,  then?" 

"This  yarn — how  can  I?  There  wasn't  a  flaw  in 
your  alibi." 

"But  haven't  I  filled  it  full  of  them  now?" 

Denver  shook  his  head.  "I  might  think  so  if  I  hadn't 
happened  to  know  that  you  wanted  to.  There's  the 
hitch,  don't  you  see?" 

Granice  groaned.  "No,  I  didn't.  You  mean  my 
wanting  to  be  found  guilty ?" 

"Of  course!  If  somebody  else  had  accused  you,  the 
story  might  have  been  worth  looking  into.  As  it  is,  a 
child  could  have  invented  it.  It  doesn't  do  much  credit 
to  your  ingenuity." 

Granice  turned  sullenly  toward  the  door.  What  was 
the  use  of  arguing  ?  But  on  the  threshold  a  sudden  im- 
pulse drew  him  back.  "Look  here,  Denver — I  daresay 
you're  right.  But  will  you  do  just  one  thing  to  prove 
it?  Put  my  statement  in  the  Investigator,  just  as  I've 
made  it.  Ridicule  it  as  much  as  you  like.  Only  give  the 
other  fellows  a  chance  at  it — men  who  don't  know  any- 
thing about  me.  Set  them  talking  and  looking  about. 
I  don't  care  a  damn  whether  you  believe  me — what  I 
want  is  to  convince  the  Grand  Jury!  I  oughtn't  to  have 
[41  ] 


THE   BOLTED  DOOR 

come  to  a  man  who  knows  me — your  cursed  incredulity 
is  infectious.  I  don't  put  my  case  well,  because  I  know 
in  advance  it's  discredited,  and  I  almost  end  by  not 
believing  it  myself.  That's  why  I  can't  convince  you. 
It's  a  vicious  circle."  He  laid  a  hand  on  Denver's  arm. 
"Send  a  stenographer,  and  put  my  statement  in  the 
paper." 

But  Denver  did  not  warm  to  the  idea.  "My  dear 
fellow,  you  seem  to  forget  that  all  the  evidence  was 
pretty  thoroughly  sifted  at  the  time,  every  possible  clue 
followed  up.  The  public  would  have  been  ready  enough 
then  to  believe  that  you  murdered  old  Lenman — you 
or  anybody  else.  All  they  wanted  was  a  murderer — the 
most  improbable  would  have  served.  But  vour  alibi 
was  too  confoundedly  complete.  And  nothing  vou've 
told  me  has  shaken  it."  Denver  laid  his  cool  hand  over 
the  other's  burning  fingers.  "Look  here,  old  fellow,  go 
home  and  work  up  a  better  case — then  come  in  and 
submit  it  to  the  Investigator" 


IV 

THE  perspiration  was  rolling  off  Granice's  forehead. 
Every  few  minutes  he  had  to  draw  out  his  handker- 
chief and  wipe  the  moisture  from  his  face. 

For  an  hour  and  a  hah*  he  had  been  talking  steadily, 
putting  his  case  to  the  District  Attorney.  Luckily  he 
[42] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

had  a  speaking  acquaintance  with  Allonby,  and  had 
obtained,  without  much  difficulty,  a  private  audience 
on  the  very  day  after  his  talk  with  Robert  Denver.  In 
the  interval  between  he  had  hurried  home,  got  out  of 
his  evening  clothes,  and  gone  forth  again  at  once  into 
the  dreary  dawn.  His  fear  of  Ascham  and  the  alienist 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  remain  in  his  rooms. 
And  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  only  way  of  averting  that 
hideous  peril  was  to  establish,  in  some  sane  impartial 
mind,  the  proof  of  his  guilt.  Even  if  he  had  not 
been  so  incurably  sick  of  life,  the  electric  chair  seemed 
now  the  only  alternative  to  the  strait-jacket. 

As  he  paused  to  wipe  his  forehead  he  saw  the  Dis- 
trict Attorney  glance  at  his  watch.  The  gesture  was 
significant,  and  Granice  lifted  an  appealing  hand.  "I 
don't  expect  you  to  believe  me  now — but  can't  you  put 
me  under  arrest,  and  have  the  thing  looked  into  ? " 

Allonby  smiled  faintly  under  his  heavy  grayish  mus- 
tache. He  had  a  ruddy  face,  full  and  jovial,  in  which 
his  keen  professional  eyes  seemed  to  keep  watch  over 
impulses  not  strictly  professional. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  we  need  lock  you  up  just 
yet.  But  of  course  I'm  bound  to  look  into  your  state- 
ment  " 

Granice  rose  with  an  exquisite  sense  of  relief.  Surely 
Allonby  wouldn't  have  said  that  if  he  hadn't  believed 
hun' 

[43] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

"That's  all  right.  Then  I  needn't  detain  you.  I  can 
be  found  at  any  time  at  my  apartment."  He  gave  the 
address. 

The  District  Attorney  smiled  again,  more  openly. 
"What  do  you  say  to  leaving  it  for  an  hour  or  two  this 
evening  ?  I'm  giving  a  little  supper  at  Rector's — quiet 
little  affair:  just  Miss  Melrose— I  think  you  know 
her — and  a  friend  or  two;  and  if  you'll  join  us.  .  ." 

Granice  stumbled  out  of  the  office  without  knowing 
what  reply  he  had  made. 

He  waited  for  four  days — four  days  of  concentrated 
horror.  During  the  first  twenty-four  hours  the  fear  of 
Ascham's  alienist  dogged  him;  and  as  that  subsided, 
it  was  replaced  by  the  growing  conviction  that  his 
avowal  had  made  no  impression  on  the  District  Attor- 
ney. Evidently,  if  he  had  been  going  to  look  into  the 
case,  Allonby  would  have  been  heard  from  before 
now.  . .  And  that  mocking  invitation  to  supper  showed 
clearly  enough  how  little  the  story  had  impressed  him ! 
Granice  was  overcome  by  the  futility  of  any  farther 
attempt  to  inculpate  himself.  He  was  chained  to  life — 
a  "prisoner  of  consciousness."  Where  was  it  he  had 
read  the  phrase  ?  Well,  he  was  learning  what  it  meant. 
In  the  long  night-hours,  when  his  brain  seemed 
ablaze,  he  was  visited  by  a  sense  of  his  fixed  identity, 
of  his  irreducible,  inexpugnable  selfness,  keener,  more 
[44] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

insidious,  more  unescapable,  than  any  sensation  he  had 
ever  known.  He  had  not  guessed  that  the  mind  was 
capable  of  such  intricacies  of  self-realisation,  of  pene- 
trating so  deep  into  its  own  dark  windings.  Often  he 
woke  from  his  brief  snatches  of  sleep  with  the  feeling 
that  something  material  was  clinging  to  him,  was  on 
his  hands  and  face,  and  in  his  throat — and  as  his  brain 
cleared  he  understood  that  it  was  the  sense  of  his  own 
personality  that  stuck  to  him  like  some  thick  viscous 
substance. 

Then,  in  the  first  morning  hours,  he  would  rise  and 
look  out  of  his  window  at  the  awakening  activities  of 
the  street — at  the  street-cleaners,  the  ash-cart  drivers, 
and  the  other  dingy  workers  flitting  by  through  the 
sallow  winter  light.  Oh,  to  be  one  of  them — any  of 
them — to  take  his  chance  in  any  of  their  skins!  They 
were  the  toilers — the  men  whose  lot  was  pitied — the 
victims  wept  over  and  ranted  about  by  altruists  and 
economists;  and  how  thankfully  he  would  have  taken 
up  the  load  of  any  one  of  them,  if  only  he  might  have 
shaken  off  his  own!  But,  no — the  iron  circle  of  con- 
sciousness held  them  too :  each  one  was  hand-cuffed  to 
his  own  detested  ego.  Why  wish  to  be  any  one  man 
rather  than  another?  The  only  absolute  good  was  not 
to  be.  .  .  And  Flint,  coming  in  to  draw  his  bath,  would 
ask  if  he  preferred  his  eggs  scrambled  or  poached  that 
morning  ? 

[45] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

On  the  fifth  day  he  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Allonby; 
and  for  the  succeeding  two  days  he  had  the  occu- 
pation of  waiting  for  an  answer.  He  hardly  stirred  from 
his  rooms  in  his  fear  of  missing  the  letter  by  a  mo- 
ment; but  would  the  District  Attorney  write,  or  send  a 
representative:  a  policeman,  a  "secret  agent,"  or  some 
other  mysterious  emissary  of  the  law? 

On  the  third  morning  Flint,  stepping  softly — as  if, 
confound  it!  his  master  were  ill — entered  the  library 
where  Granice  sat  behind  an  unread  newspaper,  and 
proffered  a  card  on  a  tray. 

Granice  read  the  name — J.  B.  Hewson — and  under- 
neath, in  pencil,  "From  the  District  Attorney's  office." 
He  started  up  with  a  thumping  heart,  and  signed  an 
assent  to  the  servant. 

Mr.  Hewson  was  a  sallow  nondescript  man  of  about 
fifty — the  kind  of  man  of  whom  one  is  sure  to  see  a 
specimen  in  any  crowd.  "Just  the  type  of  the  suc- 
cessful detective,"  Granice  reflected  as  he  shook 
hands  with  his  visitor. 

It  was  in  that  character  that  Mr.  Hewson  briefly 
introduced  himself.  He  had  been  sent  by  the  District 
Attorney  to  have  "a  quiet  talk"  with  Mr.  Granice— 
to  ask  him  to  repeat  the  statement  he  had  made  about 
the  Lenman  murder. 

His  manner  was  so  quiet,  so  reasonable  and  recep- 
tive, that  Granice's  self-confidence  returned.  Here  was 
[  46] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

a  sensible  man — a  man  who  knew  his  business — it 
would  be  easy  enough  to  make  him,  see  through  that 
ridiculous  alibi!  Granice  offered  Mr.  Hewson  a  cigar, 
and  lighting  one  himself — to  prove  his  coolness — began 

again  to  tell  his  story. 

He  was  conscious,  as  he  proceeded,  of  telling  it  bet- 
ter than  ever  before.  Practice  helped,  no  doubt;  and 
his  listener's  detached,  impartial  attitude  helped  still 
more.  He  could  see  that  Hewson,  at  least,  had  not  de- 
cided in  advance  to  disbelieve  him,  and  the  sense  of 
being  trusted  made  him  more  lucid  and  more  con- 
secutive. Yes,  this  time  his  words  would  certainly 
convince.  . 


DESPAIRINGLY,  Granice  gazed  up  and  down  the  street. 
Beside  him  stood  a  young  man  with  bright  promi- 
nent eyes,  a  smooth  but  not  too  smoothly-shaven  face, 
and  an  Irish  smile.  The  young  man's  nimble  glance 
followed  Granice's. 

"Sure  of  the  number,  are  you?"  he  asked  briskly. 

"Oh,  yes— it  was  104." 

"Well,  then,  the  new  building  has  swallowed  it  up 
— that's  certain." 

He  tilted  his  head  back  and  surveyed  the  half- 
finished  front  of  a  brick  and  limestone  flat-house  that 
[47] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

reared  its  flimsy  elegance  above  the  adjacent  row  of 
tottering  tenements  and  stables. 

"Dead  sure?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,"  said  Granice,  discouraged.  "And  even  if  I 
hadn't  been,  I  know  the  garage  was  just  opposite  Lef- 
fler's  over  there."  He  pointed  across  the  street  to  a 
tumble-down  building  with  a  blotched  sign  on  which 
the  words  "Livery  and  Boarding"  were  still  faintly 
discernible. 

'The  young  man  glanced  at  the  stable.  "Well,  that's 
something — may  get  a  clue  there.  Leffler's — same 
name  there,  anyhow.  You  remember  that  name  ? " 

"Yes— distinctly." 

Granice  had  felt  a  return  of  confidence  since  he  had 
enlisted  the  interest  of  the  Explorer's  "smartest"  re- 
porter. If  there  were  moments  when  he  hardly  believed 
his  own  story,  there  were  others  when  it  seemed  im- 
possible that  every  one  should  not  believe  it;  and  young 
Peter  McCarren,  peering,  listening,  questioning,  jot- 
ting down  notes,  inspired  him  with  new  hope.  McCarren 
had  fastened  on  the  case  at  once,  "like  a  leech,"  as  he 
phrased  it— jumped  at  it,  thrilled  to  it,  and  settled 
down  to  "draw  the  last  drop  of  fact  from  it,  and  not 
let  go  till  he  had."  No  one  else  had  treated  Granice 
in  that  way— even  Allonby's  detective  had  not  taken  a 
single  note.  And  though  a  week  had  elapsed  since  the 
visit  of  that  authorised  official,  nothing  had  been  heard 
[  48  1 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

from  the  District  Attorney's  office:  Allonby  had  ap- 
parently dropped  the  matter  again.  But  McCarren 
wasn't  going  to  drop  it — not  he !  He  hung  on  Granice's 
footsteps.  They  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  the 
previous  day  together,  and  now  they  were  off  again, 
running  down  fresh  clues. 

But  at  Leffler's  they  got  none,  after  all.  Leffler's  was 
no  longer  a  stable.  It  was  condemned  to  demolition,  and 
in  the  respite  between  sentence  and  execution  it  had 
become  a  vague  place  of  storage,  a  hospital  for  broken- 
down  carriages  and  carts,  presided  over  by  a  blear-eyed 
old  woman  who  knew  nothing  of  Flood's  garage  across 
the  way — did  not  even  remember  what  had  stood  there 
before  the  new  flat-house  began  to  rise. 

"Well — we  may  run  Leffler  down  somewhere;  I've 
seen  harder  jobs  done,"  said  McCarren,  cheerfully  not- 
ing down  the  name. 

As  they  walked  back  toward  Sixth  Avenue  he  added, 
in  a  less  sanguine  tone:  "I'd  undertake  now  to  put  the 
thing  through  if  you  could  only  put  me  on  the  track 
of  that  cyanide." 

Granice's  heart  sank.  Yes — there  was  the  weak  spot; 
he  had  felt  it  from  the  first!  But  he  still  hoped  to  con- 
vince McCarren  that  his  case  was  strong  enough  with- 
out it;  and  he  urged  the  reporter  to  come  back  to  his 
rooms  and  sum  up  the  facts  with  him  again. 

"Sorry,  Mr.  Granice,  but  I'm  due  at  the  office 
[49] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

now.  Besides,  it'd  be  no  use  till  I  get  some  fresh  stuff  to 
work  on.  Suppose  I  call  you  up  to-morrow  or  next 
day?" 

He  plunged  into  a  trolley  and  left  Granice  gazing 
desolately  after  him. 

Two  days  later  he  reappeared  at  the  apartment,  a 
shade  less  jaunty  in  demeanour. 

"Well,  Mr.  Granice,  the  stars  in  their  courses  are 
against  you,  as  the  bard  says.  Can't  get  a  trace  of  Flood, 
or  of  Leffler  either.  And  you  say  you  bought  the  motor 
through  Flood,  and  sold  it  through  him,  too  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Granice  wearily. 

"Who  bought  it,  do  you  know  ?" 

Granice  wrinkled  his  brows.  "Why,  Flood — yes, 
Flood  himself.  I  sold  it  back  to  him  three  months  later." 

"Flood?  The  devil!  And  I've  ransacked  the  town 
for  Flood.  That  kind  of  business  disappears  as  if  the 
earth  had  swallowed  it." 

Granice,  discouraged,  kept  silence. 

"That  brings  us  back  to  the  poison,"  McCarren  con- 
tinued, his  note-book  out.  "Just  go  over  that  again, 
will  you?" 

And  Granice  went  over  it  again.  It  had  all  been  so 
simple  at  the  time — and  he  had  been  so  clever  in  cover- 
ing up  his  traces!  As  soon  as  he  decided  on  poison  he 
looked  about  for  an  acquaintance  who  manufactured 
chemicals;  and  there  was  Jim  Dawes,  a  Harvard  class- 
[50] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

mate,  in  the  dyeing  business — just  the  man.  But  at  the 
last  moment  it  occurred  to  him  that  suspicion  might 
turn  toward  so  obvious  an  opportunity,  and  he  decided 
on  a  more  tortuous  course.  Another  friend,  Carrick 
Venn,  a  student  of  medicine  whose  own  ill-health  had 
kept  him  from  the  practice  of  his  profession,  amused 
his  leisure  with  experiments  in  physics,  for  the  exe- 
cution of  which  he  had  set  up  a  simple  laboratory. 
Granice  had  the  habit  of  dropping  in  to  smoke  a  cigar 
with  him  on  Sunday  afternoons,  and  the  friends  gener- 
ally sat  in  Venn's  work-shop,  at  the  back  of  the  old 
family  house  in  Stuyvesant  Square.  Off  this  work-shop 
was  the  cupboard  of  supplies,  with  its  row  of  deadly 
bottles.  Carrick  Venn  was  an  original,  a  man  of  restless 
curious  tastes,  and  his  place,  on  a  Sunday,  was  often 
full  of  visitors:  a  cheerful  crowd  of  journalists,  scrib- 
blers, painters,  experimenters  in  divers  forms  of  ex- 
pression. Coming  and  going  among  so  many,  it  was 
easy  enough  to  pass  unperceived;  and  one  afternoon 
Granice,  arriving  before  Venn  had  returned  home, 
found  himself  alone  in  the  work-shop,  and  quickly 
slipping  into  the  cupboard,  transferred  the  drug  to  his 
pocket. 

But  that  had  happened  ten  years  ago;  and  Venn,  poor 

fellow,  was  long  since  dead  of  his  dragging  ailment. 

His  old  father  was  dead,  too,  the  house  in  Stuyvesant 

Square  had  been  turned  into  a  boarding-house,  and 

[51  ] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

the  shifting  life  of  New  York  had  passed  its  sponge  over 
every  trace  of  their  history.  Even  the  optimistic  Mc- 
Carren  seemed  to  acknowledge  the  hopelessness  of 
seeking  for  proof  in  that  direction. 

"And  there's  the  third  door  slammed  in  our  faces." 
He  shut  his  note-book,  and  throwing  back  his  head, 
rested  his  bright  inquisitive  eyes  on  Granice 's  anxious 
face. 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Granice — you  see  the  weak  spot, 
don't  you?" 

The  other  made  a  despairing  motion.  "I  see  so 
many!" 

"Yes:  but  the  one  that  weakens  all  the  others.  Why 
the  deuce  do  you  want  this  thing  known  ?  Why  do  you 
want  to  put  your  head  into  the  noose?" 

Granice  looked  at  him  hopelessly,  trying  to  take  the 
measure  of  his  quick  light  irreverent  mind.  No  one  so 
full  of  a  cheerful  animal  life  would  believe  in  the  craving 
for  death  as  a  sufficient  motive;  and  Granice  racked 
his  brain  for  one  more  convincing.  But  suddenly  he 
saw  the  reporter's  face  soften,  and  melt  to  an  artless 
sentimentalism. 

"Mr.  Granice— has  the  memory  of  this  thing  always 
haunted  you?" 

Granice  stared  a  moment,  and  then  leapt  at  the 
opening.  "That's  it— the  memory  of  it  ...  always  ..." 
McCarren  nodded  vehemently.  "Dogged  your  steps, 
[52] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

eh  ?  Wouldn't  let  you  sleep  ?  The  time  came  when  you 
had  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  ?" 

"I  had  to.  Can't  you  understand  ?" 

The  reporter  struck  his  fist  on  the  table.  "God,  sir! 
I  don't  suppose  there's  a  human  being  with  a  drop  of 
warm  blood  in  him  that  can't  picture  the  deadly  horrors 
of  remorse — 

The  Celtic  imagination  was  aflame,  and  Granice 
mutely  thanked  him  for  the  word.  What  neither  Ascham 
nor  Denver  would  accept  as  a  conceivable  motive  the 
Irish  reporter  seized  on  as  the  most  adequate;  and,  as 
he  said,  once  one  could  find  a  convincing  motive,  the 
difficulties  cf  the  case  became  so  many  incentives  to 
effort. 

"Remorse — remorse"  he  repeated,  rolling  the  word 
under  his  tongue  with  an  accent  that  was  a  clue  to  the 
psychology  of  the  popular  drama;  and  Granice,  per- 
versely, said  to  himself:  "If  I  could  only  have  struck 
that  note  I  should  have  been  running  in  six  theatres  at 
once." 

He  saw  that  from  that  moment  McCarren's  profes- 
sional zeal  would  be  fanned  by  emotional  curiosity; 
and  he  profited  by  the  fact  to  propose  that  they  should 
dine  together,  and  go  on  afterward  to  some  music-hall 
or  theatre.  It  was  becoming  necessary  to  Granice  to 
feel  himself  an  object  of  pre-occupation,  to  find  himself 
in  another  mind.  He  took  a  kind  of  gray  penumbral 
[53] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

pleasure  in  riveting  McCarren  "s  attention  on  his  case; 
and  to  feign  the  grimaces  of  moral  anguish  became  an 
engrossing  same.  He  had  not  entered  a  theatre  for 
months:  but  he  sat  out  the  meaningless  performance, 
sustained  by  the  sense  of  the  reporter's  observation. 

Between  the  acts  McCarren  amused  him  with  anec- 
dotes about  the  audience:  he  knew  every  one  by  sight, 
and  could  lift  the  curtain  from  each  physiognomy. 
Granke  listened  indulgently.  He  had  lost  afl  interest 
in  his  kind,  but  he  knew  that  he  was  himself  the  real 
centre  of  McCarren  's  attention,  and  that  every  word 
the  latter  spoke  had  an  indirect  bearing  on  his  own 
problem. 

"See  that  fellow  over  there  —  the  little  dried-up  man 
in  the  third  row,  pulling  his  moustache  ?  H  is  memoirs 
would  be  worth  publishing,"  McCalren  said  suddenly 
in  the  last  entr'acte. 

Granke,  following  his  glance,  recognised  the  detec- 
tive from  Aflonby's  office.  For  a  moment  he  had  the 
thrilling  sense  that  he  was  being  shadowed. 

"Caesar,  if  he  could  talk  -  !"  McCarren  continued. 
"Know  who  he  is,  of  course?  Dr.  John  B.  Stell,  the 
alienist  in  the  countr  -  " 


Granke,  with  a  start,  bent  again  between  the  heads 
in  front  of  him.  "  That  man—  the  fourth  from  the  able  ? 
You're  mistaken.  That's  not  Dr.  Stefl." 

McCarren  laughed.  "  Well,  I  guess  IVe  been  in  court 

[54] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

often  enough  to  know  Stell  when  I  see  him.  He  testifies 
in  nearly  all  the  big  cases  where  they  plead  insanity." 

A  shiver  ran  down  Granice's  spine,  but  he  repeated 
obstinately:  "That's  not  Dr.  Stell." 

"Not  Stell?  Why,  man,  I  know  him.  Look — here  he 
comes.  If  it  isn't  Stell,  he  won't  speak  to  me." 

The  little  dried-up  man  was  moving  slowly  up  the 
aisle.  As  he  neared  McCarren  he  made  a  gesture  of 
recognition. 

"How'do,  Doctor  Stell?  Pretty  slim  show,  ain't  it?" 
the  reporter  cheerfully  flung  out  at  him.  And  Mr.  J. 
B.  Hewson,  with  a  nod  of  assent,  passed  on. 

Granice  sat  benumbed.  He  knew  that  he  had  not  been 
mistaken — the  man  who  had  just  passed  was  the  same 
man  whom  Allonby  had  sent  to  see  him:  a  physician 
disguised  as  a  detective.  Allonby,  then,  had  thought 
him  insane,  like  the  others — had  regarded  his  confes- 
sion as  the  maundering  of  a  maniac.  The  discovery 
froze  Granice  with  horror — he  saw  the  madhouse 
gaping  for  him. 

"  Isn't  there  a  man  a  good  deal  like  him — a  detective 
named  J.  B.  Hewson?" 

But  he  knew  in  advance  what  McCarren's  answer 
would  be.  "Hewson?  J.  B.  Hewson?  Never  heard  of 
him.  But  that  was  J.  B.  Stell  fast  enough — I  guess  he 
can  be  trusted  to  know  himself,  and  you  saw  he 
answered  to  his  name." 

[55] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

VI 

SOME  days  passed  before  Granice  could  obtain  a  word 
with  the  District  Attorney:  he  began  to  think  that 
Allonby  avoided  him. 

But  when  they  were  face  to  face  Allonby's  jovial 
countenance  showed  no  sign  of  embarrassment.  He 
waved  his  visitor  to  a  chair,  and  leaned  across  his  desk 
with  the  encouraging  smile  of  a  consulting  physician. 

Granice  broke  out  at  once:  "That  detective  you  sent 
me  the  other  day — 

Allonby  raised  a  deprecating  hand. 

— I  know:  it  was  Stell  the  alienist.  Why  did  you 
do  that,  Allonby?" 

The  other's  face  did  not  lose  its  composure.  "Be- 
cause I  looked  up  your  story  first — and  there's  nothing 
in  it." 

"Nothing  in  it?"  Granice  furiously  interposed. 

"Absolutely  nothing.  If  there  is,  why  the  deuce  don't 
you  bring  me  proofs  ?  I  know  you've  been  talking  to 
Peter  Ascham,  and  to  Denver,  and  to  that  little  ferret 
McCarren  of  the  Explorer.  Have  any  of  them  been 
able  to  make  out  a  case  for  you  ?  No.  Well,  what  am  I 
to  do?" 

Granice's  lips  began  to  tremble.  "Why  did  you  play 
me  that  trick?" 

"About  Stell?  I  had  to,  my  dear  fellow:  it's  part  of 
[  56] 


my  business.  Stell  is  a  detective,  if  you  come  to  that — 
every  doctor  is." 

The  trembling  of  Granice's  lips  increased,  communi- 
cating itself  in  a  long  quiver  to  his  facial  muscles.  He 
forced  a  laugh  through  his  dry  throat.  "Well — and 
what  did  he  detect?" 

"In  you?  Oh,  he  thinks  it's  overwork — overwork 
and  too  much  smoking.  If  you  look  in  on  him  some  day 
at  his  office  he'll  show  you  the  record  of  hundreds  of 
cases  like  yours,  and  tell  you  what  treatment  he  recom- 
mends. It's  one  of  the  commonest  forms  of  hallucina- 
tion. Have  a  cigar,  all  the  same." 

"But,  Allonby,  I  killed  that  man!" 

The  District  Attorney's  large  hand,  outstretched  on 
his  desk,  had  an  almost  imperceptible  gesture,  and  a 
moment  later,  as  if  in  answer  to  the  call  of  an  electric 
bell,  a  clerk  looked  in  from  the  outer  office. 

"Sorry,  my  dear  fellow — lot  of  people  waiting. 
Drop  in  on  Stell  some  morning,"  Allonby  said,  shaking 
hands. 


McCarren  had  to  own  himself  beaten:  there  was  ab- 
solutely no  flaw  in  the  alibi.  And  since  his  duty  to  his 
journal  obviously  forbade  his  wasting  time  on  insoluble 
mysteries,  he  ceased  to  frequent  Granice,  who  dropped 
back  into  a  deeper  isolation.  For  a  day  or  two  after  his 
visit  to  Allonby  he  continued  to  live  in  dread  of  Dr. 
[57] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

Stell.  Why  might  not  Allonby  have  deceived  him  as  to 
the  alienist's  diagnosis  ?  What  if  he  were  really  being 
shadowed,  not  by  a  police  agent  but  by  a  mad-doctor  ? 
To  have  the  truth  out,  he  determined  to  call  on  Dr.  Stell. 

The  physician  received  him  kindly,  and  reverted 
without  embarrassment  to  their  previous  meeting. 
"We  have  to  do  that  occasionally,  Mr.  Granice;  it's 
one  of  our  methods.  And  you  had  given  Allonby  a 
fright." 

Granice  was  silent.  He  would  have  liked  to  reaffirm 
his  guilt,  to  produce  the  fresh  arguments  which  had 
occurred  to  him  since  his  last  talk  with  the  physician; 
but  he  feared  his  eagerness  might  be  taken  for  a  symp- 
tom of  derangement,  and  he  affected  to  smile  away 
Dr.  Stell's  allusion. 

"You  think,  then,  it's  a  case  of  brain-fag — nothing 
more  ?  " 

"Nothing  more.  I  should  advise  you  to  knock  off 
tobacco.  You  smoke  a  good  deal,  don't  you  ?" 

He  developed  his  treatment,  recommending  mas- 
sage>  gymnastics,  travel,  or  any  form  of  diversion  that 
did  not — that  in  short — 

Granice  interrupted  him  impatiently.  "Oh,  I  loathe 
all  that — and  I'm  sick  of  travelling." 

"H'm.  Then  some  larger  interest— politics,  reform, 
philanthropy  ?  Something  to  take  you  out  of  yourself." 

"Yes.  I  understand,"  said  Granice  wearily. 
[58] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

"Above  all,  don't  lose  heart.  I  see  hundreds  of  cases 
like  yours,"  the  doctor  added  cheerfully  from  the 
threshold. 

On  the  doorstep  Granice  stood  still  and  laughed. 
Hundreds  of  cases  like  his — the  case  of  a  man  who 
had  committed  a  murder,  who  confessed  his  guilt,  and 
whom  no  one  would  believe!  Why,  there  had  never 
been  a  case  like  it  in  the  world.  What  a  good  figure 
Stell  would  have  made  in  a  play :  the  great  alienist  who 
couldn't  read  a  man's  mind  any  better  than  that! 

Granice  saw  huge  comic  opportunities  in  the  type. 

But  as  he  walked  away,  his  fears  dispelled,  the 
sense  of  listlessness  returned  on  him.  For  the  first  time 
since  his  avowal  to  Peter  Ascham  he  found  himself 
without  an  occupation,  and  understood  that  he  had 
been  carried  through  the  past  weeks  only  by  the  neces- 
sity of  constant  action.  Now  his  life  had  once  more  be- 
come a  stagnant  backwater,  and  as  he  stood  on  the 
street  corner  watching  the  tides  of  traffic  sweep  by,  he 
asked  himself  despairingly  how  much  longer  he  could 
endure  to  float  about  in  the  sluggish  circle  of  his  con- 
sciousness. 

The  thought  of  self-destruction  came  back  to  him; 
but  again  his  flesh  recoiled.  He  yearned  for  death 
from  other  hands,  but  he  could  never  take  it  from  his 
own.  And,  aside  from  his  insuperable  physical  fear, 
another  motive  restrained  him.  He  was  possessed  by 
[59] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

the  dogged  desire  to  establish  the  truth  of  his  story. 
He  refused  to  be  swept  aside  as  an  irresponsible 
dreamer— even  if  he  had  to  kill  himself  in  the  end,  he 
would  not  do  so  before  proving  to  society  that  he  had 
deserved  death  from  it. 

He  began  to  write  long  letters  to  the  papers;  but 
after  the  first  had  been  published  and  commented  on, 
public  curiosity  was  quelled  by  a  brief  statement  from 
the  District  Attorney's  office,  and  the  rest  of  his  com- 
munications remained  unprinted.  Ascham  came  to  see 
him,  and  begged  him  to  travel.  Robert  Denver  dropped 
in,  and  tried  to  joke  him  out  of  his  delusion;  till  Gran- 
ice,  mistrustful  of  their  motives,  began  to  dread  the 
reappearance  of  Dr.  Stell,  and  set  a  guard  on  his  lips. 
But  the  words  he  kept  back  engendered  others  and 
*  still  others  in  his  brain.  His  inner  self  became  a  hum- 
ming factory  of  arguments,  and  he  spent  long  hours 
reciting  and  writing  down  elaborate  statements,  which 
he  constantly  retouched  and  developed.  Then  his  activ- 
ity began  to  languish  under  the  lack  of  an  audience, 
the  sense  of  being  buried  beneath  deepening  drifts  of 
indifference.  In  a  passion  of  resentment  he  swore  that 
he  would  prove  himself  a  murderer,  even  if  he  had  to 
commit  another  crime  to  do  it;  and  for  a  night  or  two 
the  thought  flamed  red  on  his  sleeplessness.  But  day- 
light dispelled  it.  The  determining  impulse  was  lack- 
ing and  he  hated  too  promiscuously  to  choose  his 
[60] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

victim.  .  .  So  he  was  thrown  back  on  the  struggle  to 
impose  the  truth  of  his  story.  As  fast  as  one  channel 
closed  on  him  he  tried  to  pierce  another  through  the 
sliding  sands  of  incredulity.  But  every  issue  seemed 
blocked,  and  the  whole  human  race  leagued  together 
to  cheat  one  man  of  the  right  to  die. 

Thus  viewed,  the  situation  became  so  monstrous  that 
he  lost  his  last  shred  of  self-restraint  in  contemplating 
it.  What  if  he  were  really  the  victim  of  some  mocking 
experiment,  the  centre  of  a  ring  of  holiday-makers  jeer- 
ing at  a  poor  creature  in  its  blind  dashes  against  the 
solid  walls  of  consciousness  ?  But,  no — men  were  not  so 
uniformly  cruel:  there  were  flaws  in  the  close  surface 
of  their  indifference,  cracks  of  weakness  and  pity  here 
and  there.  .  . 

Granice  began  to  think  that  his  mistake  lay  in  hav- 
ing appealed  to  persons  more  or  less  familiar  with  his 
past,  and  to  whom  the  visible  conformities  of  his  life 
seemed  a  complete  disproof  of  its  one  fierce  secret  devia- 
tion. The  general  tendency  was  to  take  for  the  whole  of 
life  the  slit  seen  between  the  blinders  of  habit:  and  in 
his  walk  down  that  narrow  vista  Granice  cut  a  correct 
enough  figure.  To  a  vision  free  to  follow  his  whole 
orbit  his  story  would  be  more  intelligible:  it  would  be 
easier  to  convince  a  chance  idler  in  the  street  than  the 
trained  intelligence  hampered  by  a  sense  of  his  ante- 
cedents. This  idea  shot  up  in  him  with  the  tropic  lux- 
l-V  ] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

uriance  of  each  new  seed  of  thought,  and  he  began  to 
walk  the  streets,  and  to  frequent  out-of-the-way  chop- 
houses  and  bars  in  his  search  for  the  impartial  stranger 
to  whom  he  should  disclose  himself. 

At  first  every  face  looked  encouragement;  but  at  the 
crucial  moment  he  always  held  back.  So  much  was  at 
stake,  and  it  was  so  essential  that  his  first  choice  should 
be  decisive.  He  dreaded  stupidity,  timidity,  intolerance. 
The  imaginative  eye,  the  furrowed  brow,  were  what  he 
sought.  He  must  reveal  himself  only  to  a  heart  versed 
in  the  tortuous  motions  of  the  human  will;  and  he 
began  to  hate  the  dull  benevolence  of  the  average 
face.  Once  or  twice,  obscurely,  allusively,  he  made  a 
beginning — once  sitting  down  by  a  man  in  a  base- 
ment chop-house,  another  day  approaching  a  lounger 
on  an  east-side  wharf.  But  in  both  cases  the  premoni- 
tion of  failure  checked  him  on  the  brink  of  avowal. 
His  dread  of  being  taken  for  a  man  in  the  clutch  of  a 
fixed  idea  gave  him  an  abnormal  keenness  in  reading 
the  expression  of  his  listeners,  and  he  had  provided 
himself  in  advance  with  a  series  of  verbal  alternatives, 
trap-doors  of  evasion  from  the  first  dart  of  ridicule 
or  suspicion. 

He  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  day  in  the  streets, 
coming  home  at  irregular  hours,  dreading  the  silence 
and  orderliness  of  his  apartment,  and  the  mute 
scrutiny  of  Flint.  His  real  life  was  spent  in  a  world 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

so  remote  from  this  familiar  setting  that  he  sometimes 
had  the  sense  of  a  living  metempsychosis,  a  furtive 
passage  from  one  identity  to  another — yet  the  other  as 
unescapably  himself! 

One  humiliation  he  was  spared :  the  desire  to  live 
never  revived  in  him.  Not  for  a  moment  was  he  tempted 
to  a  shabby  pact  with  existing  conditions.  He  wanted 
to  die,  wanted  it  with  the  fixed  unwavering  desire 
which  alone  attains  its  end.  And  still  the  end  eluded 
him!  It  would  not  always,  of  course — he  had  full  faith 
in  the  dark  star  of  his  destiny.  And  he  could  prove  it 
best  by  repeating  his  story,  persistently  and  indefatiga- 
bly,  pouring  it  into  indifferent  ears,  hammering  it  into 
dull  brains,  till  at  last  it  kindled  a  spark,  and  some  one 
of  the  careless  millions  paused,  listened,  believed.  .  . 

It  was  a  mild  March  day,  and  he  had  been  loitering 
on  the  west-side  docks,  looking  at  faces.  He  was  be- 
coming an  expert  in  physiognomies:  his  eagerness  no 
longer  made  rash  darts  and  awkward  recoils.  He  knew 
now  the  face  he  needed,  as  clearly  as  if  it  had  come  to 
him  in  a  vision;  and  not  till  he  found  it  would  he 
speak.  As  he  walked  eastward  through  the  shabby 
streets  he  had  a  premonition  that  he  should  find  it 
that  morning.  Perhaps  it  was  the  promise  of  spring 
in  the  air — certainly  he  felt  calmer  than  for  days.  .  . 

He  turned  into  Washington  Square,  struck  across  it 
obliquely,  and  walked  up  University  Place.  Its  hetero- 
[63  ] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

geneous  passers  always  attracted  him— they  were  less 
hurried  than  in  Broadway,  less  enclosed  and  classified 
than  in  Fifth  Avenue.  He  walked  slowly,  watching  for 

his  face. 

At  Union  Square  he  had  a  relapse  into  discourage- 
ment, like  a  votary  who  has  watched  too  long  for  a 
sign  from  the  altar.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  should  never 
find  his  face.  .  .  The  air  was  languid,  and  he  felt 
tired.  He  walked  between  the  bald  grass-plots  and  the 
twisted  trees,  making  for  a  seat.  Presently  he  passed 
a  bench  on  which  a  girl  sat  alone,  and  something  as 
definite  as  the  twitch  of  a  cord  caused  him  to  stop 
before  her.  He  had  never  dreamed  of  telling  his  story 
to  a  girl,  had  hardly  looked  at  the  women's  faces  as 
they  passed.  His  case  was  man's  work:  how  could  a 
woman  help  him  ?  But  this  girl's  face  was  extraordinary 
— quiet  and  wide  as  an  evening  sky.  It  suggested  a 
hundred  images  of  space,  distance,  mystery,  like  ships 
he  had  seen,  as  a  boy,  berthed  by  a  familiar  wharf, 
but  with  the  breath  of  far  seas  and  strange  harbours 
in  their  shrouds.  .  .  Certainly  this  girl  would  under- 
stand. He  went  up  1o  her,  lifting  his  hat,  observing 
the  forms — wishing  her  to  see  at  once  that  he  was 
"a  gentleman." 

"I  am  a  stranger  to  you,"  he  began,  sitting  down 
beside  her,  "but  your  face  is  so  extremely  intelli- 
gent that  I  feel.  .  .  I  feel  it  is  the  face  I've  waited 
[64] 


for  .  .  .  looked  for  everywhere;  and  I  want  to  tell 
you " 

The  girl's  eyes  widened:  she  rose  to  her  feet.  She 
was  escaping  him! 

In  his  dismay  he  ran  a  few  steps  after  her,  and 
caught  her  by  the  arm. 

"Here — wait — listen!  Oh,  don't  scream,  you  fool!" 
he  shouted  out. 

He  felt  a  hand  on  his  own  arm;  turned  and  con- 
fronted a  policeman.  Instantly  he  understood  that  he 
was  being  arrested,  and  something  hard  within  him 
was  loosened  and  ran  to  tears. 

"Ah,  you  know — you  know  I'm  guilty?" 

He  was  conscious  that  a  crowd  was  forming,  and 
that  the  girl  had  disappeared.  But  what  did  he  care 
about  the  girl  ?  It  was  the  policeman  who  had  under- 
stood him.  He  turned  and  followed,  the  crowd  at  his 
heels.  .  . 

VII 

IN  the  charming  place  in  which  he  found  himself  there 

were  so  many  sympathetic  faces  that  he  felt  more  than 

ever  convinced  of  the  certainty  of  making  himself  heard. 

It  was  a  bad  blow,  at  first,  to  find  that  he  had  not 

been  arrested  for  murder;  but  Ascham,  who  had  come 

at  once,  convinced  him  that  he  needed  rest,  and  the 

time  to  "review"  his  statements;  it  appeared  that  reit- 

[  65  ] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

eration  had  made  them  a  little  confused  and  contra- 
dictory. To  this  end  he  had  readily  acquiesced  in  his 
removal  to  a  large  quiet  establishment,  with  an  open 
space  and  trees  about  it,  where  he  had  found  a  num- 
ber of  intelligent  companions,  some,  like  himself,  en- 
gaged in  preparing  or  reviewing  statements  of  their 
cases,  and  others  ready  to  lend  an  attentive  ear  to  his 
own  recital. 

For  a  time  he  was  content  to  let  himself  go  on  the 
current  of  this  new  existence;  but  although  his  auditors 
gave  him  for  the  most  part  an  encouraging  attention, 
which,  in  some,  went  the  length  of  really  brilliant 
and  helpful  suggestion,  he  gradually  felt  a  recurrence 
of  his  doubts.  Either  his  hearers  were  not  sincere,  or 
else  they  had  less  power  to  help  him  than  they  boasted. 
His  endless  conferences  resulted  in  nothing,  and  the 
long  rest  produced  an  increased  mental  lucidity  which 
made  inaction  more  and  more  unbearable.  At  length 
he  discovered  that  on  certain  days  visitors  from  the 
outer  world  were  admitted  to  his  retreat;  and  he  wrote 
out  long  and  logically  constructed  relations  of  his 
crime,  and  furtively  slipped  them  into  the  hands  of 
these  messengers  of  hope. 

This  gave  him  a  fresh  lease  of  patience,  and  he  now 
lived  only  to  watch  for  the  visitors'  days,  and  scan  the 
faces  that  swept  by  him  like  stars  seen  and  lost  in  the 
rifts  of  a  hurrying  sky. 

[66] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

Mostly,  these  faces  were  strange  and  less  intelligent 
than  those  of  his  companions.  But  they  represented 
his  last  means  of  access  to  the  world,  a  kind  of  sub- 
terranean channel  on  which  he  could  set  his  "state- 
ments" afloat,  like  paper  boats  which  a  mysterious 
current  might  sweep  out  into  the  open  seas  of  life. 

One  day,  however,  his  attention  was  arrested  by  a 
familiar  contour,  a  pair  of  bright  prominent  eyes,  and 
a  chin  insufficiently  shaved.  He  sprang  up  and  stood 
in  the  path  of  Peter  McCarren. 

The  journalist  looked  at  him  doubtfully,  then  held 
out  his  hand  with  a  startled  "Why ?" 

"You  didn't  know  me?  I'm  so  changed?"  Granice 
faltered,  feeling  the  rebound  of  the  other's  wonder. 

"Why,  no;  but  you're  looking  quieter — smoothed 
out,"  McCarren  smiled. 

"Yes:  that's  what  I'm  here  for — to  rest.  And  I've 
taken  the  opportunity  to  write  out  a  clearer  state- 
ment  " 

Granice's  hand  shook  so  that  he  could  hardly  draw 
the  paper  from  his  pocket.  As  he  did  so  he  noticed 
that  the  reporter  was  accompanied  by  a  tall  man  with 
compassionate  eyes.  It  came  to  Granice  in  a  wild  thrill 
of  conviction  that  this  was  the  face  he  had  waited  for.  .  . 

"Perhaps  your  friend — he  is  your  friend? — would 
glance  over  it — or  I  could  put  the  case  in  a  few  words 
if  you  have  time  ?"  Granice's  voice  shook  like  his  hand. 
[67] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

If  this  chance  escaped  him  he  felt  that  his  last  hope 
was  gone.  McCarren  and  the  stranger  looked  at  each 
other,  and  the  reporter  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"I'm  sorry  we  can't  stay  and  talk  it  over  now,  Mr. 
Granice;  but  my  friend  has  an  engagement,  and  we're 
rather  pressed " 

Granice  continued  to  proffer  the  paper.  "I'm  sorry — 
I  think  I  could  have  explained.  But  you'll  take  this,  at 
any  rate?" 

The  stranger  looked  at  him  gently.  "Certainly — 
I'll  take  it."  He  had  his  hand  out.  "Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,"  Granice  echoed. 

He  stood  watching  the  two  men  move  away  from 
him  through  the  long  hall;  and  as  he  watched  them 
a  tear  ran  down  his  face.  But  as  soon  as  they  were 
out  of  sight  he  turned  and  walked  toward  his  room, 
beginning  to  hope  again,  already  planning  a  new  state- 
ment. . . 

Outside  the  building  the  two  men  stood  still,  and  the 
journalist's  companion  looked  up  curiously  at  the  long 
rows  of  barred  windows. 

"So  that  was  Granice?" 

"  Yes— that  was  Granice,  poor  devil,"  said  McCarren. 

"Strange  case!  I  suppose  there's  never  been  one  just 
like  it  ?  He's  still  absolutely  convinced  that  he  committed 
that  murder?" 

[68] 


THE   BOLTED   DOOR 

"Absolutely.  Yes." 

The  stranger  reflected.  "And  there  was  no  conceiv- 
able ground  for  the  idea  ?  No  one  could  make  out  how 
it  started  ?  A  quiet  conventional  sort  of  fellow  like  that 
— where  do  you  suppose  he  got  such  a  delusion  ?  Did 
you  ever  get  the  least  clue  to  it  ?  " 

McCarren  stood  still,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his 
head  cocked  up  in  contemplation  of  the  windows.  Then 
he  turned  his  bright  hard  gaze  on  his  companion. 

"That  was  the  queer  part  of  it.  I've  never  spoken  of 
it — but  I  did  get  a  clue." 

"By  Jove!  That's  interesting.  What  was  it?" 

McCarren  formed  his  red  lips  into  a  whistle.  "Why — 
that  it  wasn't  a  delusion." 

He  produced  his  effect — the  other  turned  a  startled 
glance  on  him. 

"He  murdered  the  man  all  right.  I  tumbled  on  the 
truth  by  the  merest  accident,  when  I'd  pretty  nearly 
chucked  the  whole  job." 

"He  murdered  him — murdered  his  cousin?" 

"Sure  as  you  live.  Only  don't  split  on  me.  It's  about 
the  queerest  business  I  ever  ran  into.  .  .  Do  about  it  ? 
Why,  what  was  I  to  do  ?  I  couldn't  hang  the  poor  devil, 
could  I  ?  Lord,  but  I  was  glad  when  they  collared  him, 
and  had  him  stowed  away  safe  in  there!" 

The  tall  man  listened  with  a  grave  face,  grasping 
Granice's  statement  in  his  hand. 
[69] 


THE  BOLTED   DOOR 

"Here — take  this;  it  makes  me  sick,"  he  said 
abruptly,  thrusting  the  paper  at  the  reporter;  and  the 
two  men  turned  and  walked  in  silence  to  the  gates. 


[70] 


HIS    FATHER'S    SON 


HIS    FATHER'S    SON 


AFTER  his  wife's  death  Mason  Grew  took  the 
momentous  step  of  selling  out  his  business  and 
moving  from  Wingfield,  Connecticut,  to  Brooklyn. 

For  years  he  had  secretly  nursed  the  hope  of  such 
a  change,  but  had  never  dared  to  suggest  it  to  Mrs. 
Grew,  a  woman  of  immutable  habits.  Mr.  Grew  him- 
self was  attached  to  Wingfield,  where  he  had  grown 
up,  prospered,  and  become  what  the  local  press  de- 
scribed as  "prominent."  He  was  attached  to  his 
brick  house  with  sandstone  trimmings  and  a  cast-iron 
area-railing  neatly  sanded  to  match;  to  the  similar 
row  of  houses  across  the  street,  with  "trolley"  wires 
forming  a  kind  of  aerial  pathway  between,  and  to  the 
vista  closed  by  the  sandstone  steeple  of  the  church 
which  he  and  his  wife  had  always  attended,  and  where 
their  only  child  had  been  baptised. 

It  was  hard  to  snap  all  these  threads  of  association, 
yet  still  harder,  now  that  he  was  alone,  to  live  so  far 
from  his  boy.  Ronald  Grew  was  practising  law  in  New 
York,  and  there  was  no  more  chance  of  his  returning 


HIS   FATHER'S  SON 

to  live  at  Wingfield  than  of  a  river's  flowing  inland 
from  the  sea.  Therefore  to  be  near  him  his  father  must 
move;  and  it  was  characteristic  of  Mr.  Grew,  and  of 
the  situation  generally,  that  the  translation,  when  it 
took  place,  was  to  Brooklyn,  and  not  to  New  York. 

"Why  you  bury  yourself  in  that  hole  I  can't  think," 
had  been  Ronald's  comment;  and  Mr.  Grew  simply  re- 
plied that  rents  were  lower  in  Brooklyn,  and  that  he  had 
heard  of  a  house  there  that  would  suit  him.  In  reality 
he  had  said  to  himself — being  the  only  recipient  of 
his  own  confidences — that  if  he  went  to  New  York  he 
might  be  on  the  boy's  mind;  whereas,  if  he  lived  in 
Brooklyn,  Ronald  would  always  have  a  good  excuse 
for  not  popping  over  to  see  him  every  other  day.  The 
sociological  isolation  of  Brooklyn,  combined  with  its 
geographical  nearness,  presented  in  fact  the  precise  con- 
ditions that  Mr.  Grew  sought.  He  wanted  to  be  near 
enough  to  New  York  to  go  there  often,  to  feel  under 
his  feet  the  same  pavement  that  Ronald  trod,  to  sit 
now  and  then  in  the  same  theatres,  and  find  on  his 
breakfast-table  the  journals  which,  with  increasing 
frequency,  inserted  Ronald's  name  in  the  sacred  bounds 
of  the  society  column.  It  had  always  been  a  trial  to 
Mr.  Grew  to  have  to  wait  twenty-  our  hours  to  read 
that  "among  those  present  was  Mr.  Ronald  Grew." 
Now  he  had  it  with  his  coffee,  and  left  it  on  the  break- 
fast-table to  the  perusal  of  a  "hired  girl"  cosmopolitan 
[74] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

enough  to  do  it  justice.  In  such  ways  Brooklyn  attested 
the  advantages  of  its  nearness  to  New  York,  while 
remaining,  as  regards  Ronald's  duty  to  his  father,  as 
remote  and  inaccessible  as  Wingfield. 

It  was  not  that  Ronald  shirked  his  filial  obligations, 
but  rather  because  of  his  heavy  sense  of  them,  that  Mr. 
Grew  so  persistently  sought  to  minimise  and  lighten 
them.  It  was  he  who  insisted,  to  Ronald,  on  the  im- 
mense difficulty  of  getting  from  New  York  to  Brooklyn. 

"Any  way  you  look  at  it,  it  makes  a  big  hole  in  the 
day;  and  there's  not  much  use  in  the  ragged  rim  left. 
You  say  you're  dining  out  next  Sunday  ?  Then  I  forbid 
you  to  come  over  here  to  lunch.  Do  you  understand 
me,  sir?  You  disobey  at  the  risk  of  your  father's  male- 
diction! Where  did  you  say  you  were  dining?  With  the 
Waltham  Bankshires  again  ?  Why,  that's  the  second 
time  in  three  weeks,  ain't  it  ?  Big  blow-out,  I  suppose  ? 
Gold  plate  and  orchids — opera  singers  in  afterward  ? 
Well,  you'd  be  in  a  nice  box  if  there  was  a  fog  on  the 
river,  and  you  got  hung  up  half-way  over.  That'd  be  a 
handsome  return  for  the  attention  Mrs.  Bankshire  has 
shown  you — singling  out  a  whipper-snapper  like  you 
twice  in  three  weeks!  (What's  the  daughter's  name — 
Daisy  ?)  No,  sir — don't  you  come  fooling  round  here 
next  Sunday,  or  I'll  set  the  dogs  on  you.  And  you 
wouldn't  find  me  in  anyhow,  come  to  think  of  it.  I'm 
lunching  out  myself,  as  it  happens — yes,  sir,  lunching 
[75] 


HIS   FATHER'S  SON 

out.  Is  there  anything  especially  comic  in  my  lunching 
out  ?  I  don't  often  do  it,  you  say  ?  Well,  that's  no  reason 
why  I  never  should.  Who  with?  Why,  with— with  old 
Dr.  Bleaker:  Dr.  Eliphalet  Bleaker.  No,  you  wouldn't 
know  about  him— he's  only  an  old  friend  of  your 
mother's  and  mine." 

Gradually  Ronald's  insistence  became  less  difficult 
to  overcome.  With  his  customary  sweetness  and  tact 
(as  Mr.  Grew  put  it)  he  began  to  "take  the  hint,"  to 
give  in  to  "the*  old  gentleman's"  growing  desire  for 
solitude. 

"I'm  set  in  my  ways,  Ronny,  that's  about  the  size 
of  it;  I  like  to  go  tick-ticking  along  like  a  clock.  I  always 
did.  And  when  you  come  bouncing  in  I  never  feel  sure 
there's  enough  for  dinner — or  that  I  haven't  sent  Maria 
out  for  the  evening.  And  I  don't  want  the  neighbours 
to  see  me  opening  my  own  door  to  my  son.  That's  the 
kind  of  cringing  snob  I  am.  Don't  give  me  away,  will 
you  ?  I  want  'em  to  think  I  keep  four  or  five  powdered 
flunkeys  in  the  hall  day  and  night — same  as  the  lobby 
of  one  of  those  Fifth  Avenue  hotels.  And  if  you  pop 
over  when  you're  not  expected,  how  am  I  going  to  keep 
up  the  bluff?" 

Ronald  yielded  after  the  proper  amount  of  resistance 

—his  intuitive  sense,   in  every  social  transaction,   of 

the  proper  amount  of  force  to  be  expended,  was  one 

of  the  qualities  his  father  most  admired  in  him.  Mr. 

[76] 


v 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

Grew's  perceptions  in  this  line  were  probably  more  acute 
than  his  son  suspected.  The  souls  of  short  thick-set  men, 
with  chubby  features,  mutton-chop  whiskers,  and  pale 
eyes  peering  between  folds  of  fat  like  almond  kernels 
in  half-split  shells — souls  thus  encased  do  not  reveal 
themselves  to  the  casual  scrutiny  as  delicate  emotional 
instruments.  But  in  spite  of  the  disguise  in  which  he 
walked  Mr.  Grew  vibrated  exquisitely  in  response  to 
every  imaginative  appeal;  and  his  son  Ronald  was  al- 
ways stimulating  and  feeding  his  imagination. 

Ronald  in  fact  constituted  Mr.  Grew's  one  escape 
from  the  element  of  mediocrity  which  had  always 
hemmed  him  in.  To  a  man  so  enamoured  of  beauty, 
and  so  little  qualified  to  add  to  its  sum  total,  it  was 
a  wonderful  privilege  to  have  bestowed  on  the  world 
such  a  being.  Ronald's  resemblance  to  Mr.  Grew's 
early  conception  of  what  he  himself  would  have  liked 
to  look  might  have  put  new  life  into  the  discredited 
theory  of  pre-natal  influences.  At  any  rate,  if  the 
young  man  owed  his  beauty,  his  distinction  and  his 
winning  manner  to  the  dreams  of  one  of  his  parents, 
it  was  certainly  to  those  of  Mr.  Grew,  who,  while  out- 
wardly devoting  his  life  to  the  manufacture  and  dis- 
semination of  Grew's  Secure  Suspender  Buckle,  moved 
in  an  enchanted  inward  world  peopled  with  all  the 
figures  of  romance.  In  this  company  Mr.  Grew  cut  as 
brilliant  a  figure  as  any  of  its  noble  phantoms;  and  to 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

see*-his  vision  of  himself  projected  on  the  outer  world 
in  the  shape  of  a  brilliant  popular  conquering  son, 
seemed,  in  retrospect,  to  give  to  it  a  belated  reality. 
There  were  even  moments  when,  forgetting  his  face, 
Mr.  Grew  said  to  himself  that  if  he'd  had  "half  a 
chance"  he  might  have  done  as  well  as  Ronald;  but 
this  only  fortified  his  resolve  that  Ronald  should  do 
infinitely  better. 

Ronald's  ability  to  do  well  almost  equalled  his  gift 
of  looking  well.  Mr.  Grew  constantly  affirmed  to  him- 
self that  the  boy  was  "not  a  genius";  but,  barring  this 
slight  deficiency,  he  had  almost  every  gift  that  a  parent 
could  wish.  Even  at  Harvard  he  had  managed  to  be 
several  desirable  things  at  once — writing  poetry  in  the 
college  magazine,  playing  delightfully  "by  ear,"  ac- 
quitting himself  creditably  of  his  studies,  and  yet 
holding  his  own  in  the  sporting  set  that  formed,  as 
it  were,  the  gateway  of  the  temple  of  Society.  Mr. 
Grew's  idealism  did  not  preclude  the  frank  desire 
that  his  son  should  pass  through  that  gateway;  but 
the  wish  was  not  prompted  by  material  considerations. 
It  was  Mr.  Grew's  notion  that,  in  the  rough  and 
hurrying  current  of  a  new  civilisation,  the  little  pools  of 
leisure  and  enjoyment  must  nurture  delicate  growths, 
material  graces  as  well  as  moral  refinements,  likely  to 
be  uprooted  and  swept  away  by  the  rush  of  the  main 
torrent.  He  based  his  theory  on  the  fact  that  he  had 
[  78  ] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

liked  the  few  "society"  people  he  had  met — had  found 
their  manners  simpler,  their  voices  more  agreeable, 
their  views  more  consonant  with  his  own,  than  those 
of  the  leading  citizens  of  Wingfield.  But  then  he  had 
met  very  few. 

Ronald's  sympathies  needed  no  urging  in  the  same 
direction.  He  took  naturally,  dauntlessly,  to  all  the 
high  and  exceptional  things  about  which  his  father's 
imagination  had  so  long  ineffectually  hovered — from 
the  start  he  was  what  Mr.  Grew  had  dreamed  of  be- 
ing. And  so  precise,  so  detailed,  was  Mr.  Grew's 
vision  of  his  own  imaginary  career,  that  as  Ronald 
grew  up,  and  began  to  travel  in  a  widening  orbit,  his 
father  had  an  almost  uncanny  sense  of  the  extent  to 
which  that  career  was  enacting  itself  before  him.  At 
Harvard,  Ronald  had  done  exactly  what  the  hypothet- 
ical Mason  Grew  would  have  done,  had  not  his  actual 
self,  at  the  same  age,  been  working  his  way  up  in  old 
Slagden's  button  factory — the  institution  which  was 
later  to  acquire  fame,  and  even  notoriety,  as  the  birth- 
place of  Grew's  Secure  Suspender  Buckle.  Afterward, 
at  a  period  when  the  actual  Grew  had  passed  from  the 
factory  to  the  bookkeeper's  desk,  his  invisible  double 
had  been  reading  law  at  Columbia — precisely  again 
what  Ronald  did !  But  it  was  when  the  young  man  left 
the  paths  laid  out  for  him  by  the  parental  hand,  and 
cast  himself  boldly  on  the  world,  that  his  adventures 
[79] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

began  to  bear  the  most  astonishing  resemblance  to 
those  of  the  unrealised  Mason  Grew.  It  was  in  New 
York  that  the  scene  of  this  hypothetical  being's  first 
exploits  had  always  been  laid;  and  it  was  in  New  York 
that  Ronald  was  to  achieve  his  first  triumph.  There  was 
nothing  small  or  timid  about  Mr.  Grew's  imagination; 
it  had  never  stopped  at  anything  between  Wingfield 
and  the  metropolis.  And  the  real  Ronald  had  the 
same  cosmic  vision  as  his  parent.  He  brushed  aside 
with  a  contemptuous  laugh  his  mother's  entreaty  that 
he  should  stay  at  Wingfield  and  continue  the  dynasty 
of  the  Grew  Suspender  Buckle.  Mr.  Grew  knew  that 
in  reality  Ronald  winced  at  the  Buckle,  loathed  it, 
blushed  for  his  connection  with  it.  Yet  it  was  the  Buckle 
that  had  seen  him  through  Groton,  Harvard  and  the 
Law  School,  and  had  permitted  him  to  enter  the  office 
of  a  distinguished  corporation  lawyer,  instead  of  being 
enslaved  to  some  sordid  business  with  quick  returns. 
The  Buckle  had  been  Ronald's  fairy  god-mother — yet 
his  father  did  not  blame  him  for  abhorring  and  dis- 
owning it.  Mr.  Grew  himself  often  bitterly  regretted 
having  attached  his  own  name  to  the  instrument  of  his 
material  success,  though,  at  the  time,  his  doing  so  had 
been  the  natural  expression  of  his  romanticism.  When 
he  invented  the  Buckle,  and  took  out  his  patent,  he 
and  his  wife  both  felt  that  to  bestow  their  name  on  it 
was  like  naming  a  battle-ship  or  a  peak  of  the  Andes. 
[80] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

Mrs.  Grew  had  never  learned  to  know  better;  but 
Mr.  Grew  had  discovered  his  error  before  Ronald  was 
out  of  school.  He  read  it  first  in  a  black  eye  of  his  boy's. 
Ronald's  symmetry  had  been  marred  by  the  insolent 
fist  of  a  fourth  former  whom  he  had  chastised  for  al- 
luding to  his  father  as  "Old  Buckles";  and  when  Mr. 
Grew  heard  the  epithet  he  understood  in  a  flash  that 
the  Buckle  was  a  thing  to  blush  for.  It  was  too  late  then 
to  dissociate  his  name  from  it,  or  to  efface  from  the 
hoardings  of  the  entire7  continent  the  picture  of  two 
gentlemen,  one  contorting  himself  in  the  abject  effort 
to  repair  a  broken  brace,  while  the  careless  ease  of  the 
other's  attitude  proclaimed  his  trust  in  the  Secure 
Suspender  Buckle.  These  records  were  indelible,  but 
Ronald  could  at  least  be  spared  all  direct  connection 
with  them;  and  that  day  Mr.  Grew  decided  that  the 
boy  should  not  return  to  Wingfield. 

"You'll  see,"  he  had  said  to  Mrs.  Grew,  "he'll 
take  right  hold  in  New  York.  Ronald's  got  my  knack 
for  taking  hold,"  he  added,  throwing  out  his  chest. 

"  But  the  way  you  took  hold  was  in  business,"  ob- 
jected Mrs.  Grew,  who  was  large  and  literal. 

Mr.  Grew's  chest  collapsed,  and  he  became  sud- 
denly conscious  of  his  comic  face  in  its  rim  of  sandy 
whisker.  "That's  not  the  only  way,"  he  said,  with 
a  touch  of  wistfulness  which  escaped  his  wife's 
analysis. 

[81] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

VWell,   of  course  you  could   have  written   beauti- 
fully," she  rejoined  with  admiring  eyes. 
*'  "Written?  Me!"  Mr.  Grew  became  sardonic. 

"Why,  those  letters — weren't  they  beautiful,  I'd 
like  to  know?" 

The  couple  exchanged  a  glance,  innocently  allusive 
and  amused  on  the  wife's  part,  and  charged  with  a 
sudden  tragic  significance  on  the  husband's. 

"Well,  I've  got  to  be  going  along  to  the  office 
now,"  he  merely  said,  dragging  himself  out  of  his 
chair. 

This  had  happened  while  Ronald  was  still  at  school; 
and  now  Mrs.  Grew  slept  in  the  Wingfield  cemetery, 
under  a  life-size  theological  virtue  of  her  own  choosing, 
and  Mr.  Grew's  prognostications  as  to  Ronald's  abil- 
ity to  "take  right  hold"  in  New  York  were  being  more 
and  more  brilliantly  fulfilled. 


II 

RONALD  obeyed  his  father's  injunction  not  to  come  to 
luncheon  on  the  day  of  the  Bankshires'  dinner;  but 
in  the  middle  of  the  following  week  Mr.  Grew  was  sur- 
prised by  a  telegram  from  his  son. 

"Want  to  see  you  important  matter.  Expect  me  to- 
morrow afternoon." 

[  82  ] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

Mr.  Grew  received  the  telegram  after  breakfast. 
To  peruse  it  he  had  lifted  his  eye  from  a  paragraph 
of  the  morning  paper  describing  a  fancy-dress  dinner* 
which  the  Hamilton  Gliddens'  had  given  the  night  be- 
fore for  the  house-warming  of  their  new  Fifth  Avenue 
palace. 

"Among  the  couples  who  afterward  danced  in  the 
Poets'  Quadrille  were  Miss  Daisy  Bankshire,  looking 
more  than  usually  lovely  as  Laura,  and  Mr.  Ronald 
Grew  as  the  young  Petrarch." 

Petrarch  and  Laura!  Well — if  anything  meant  any- 
thing, Mr.  Grew  supposed  he  knew  what  that  meant. 
For  weeks  past  he  had  noticed  how  constantly  the 
names  of  the  young  people  were  coupled  in  the  society 
notes  he  so  insatiably  devoured.  Even  the  soulless  re- 
porter was  getting  into  the  habit  of  uniting  them  in 
his  lists.  And  this  Laura  and  Petrarch  business  was 
almost  an  announcement.  .  . 

Mr.  Grew  dropped  the  telegram,  wiped  his  eye- 
glasses, and  re-read  the  paragraph.  "Miss  Daisy  Bank- 
shire  .  .  .  more  than  usually  lovely.  .  ."  Yes;  she  was 
lovely.  He  had  often  seen  her  photograph  in  the 
papers — seen  her  represented  in  every  attitude  of 
the  mundane  game:  fondling  her  prize  bull-dog, 
taking  a  fence  on  her  thoroughbred,  dancing  a  gavotte, 
all  patches  and  plumes,  or  fingering  a  guitar,  all  tulle 
and  lilies;  and  once  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  at 
[83] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

the  theatre.  Hearing  that  Ronald  was  going  to  a  fash- 
ionable first-night  with  the  Bankshires,  Mr.  Grew  had 
%r  once  overcome  his  repugnance  to  following  his  son's 
movements,  and  had  secured  for  himself,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  balcony,  a  stall  whence  he  could  observe 
the  Bankshire  box  without  fear  of  detection.  Ronald 
had  never  known  of  his  father's  presence;  and  for 
three  blessed  hours  Mr.  Grew  had  watched  his  boy's 
handsome  dark  head  bent  above  the  fair  hair  and 
averted  shoulder  that  were  all  he  could  catch  of  Miss 
Bankshire's  beauties. 

He  recalled  the  vision  now;  and  with  it  came,  as 
usual,  its  ghostly  double:  the  vision  of  his  young  self 
bending  above  such  a  shoulder  and  such  shining  hair. 
Needless  to  say  that  the  real  Mason  Grew  had  never 
found  himself  in  so  enviable  a  situation.  The  late 
Mrs.  Grew  had  no  more  resembled  Miss  Daisy  Bank- 
shire  than  he  had  looked  like  the  happy  victorious 
Ronald.  And  the  mystery  was  that  from  their  dull 
faces,  their  dull  endearments,  the  miracle  of  Ronald 
should  have  sprung.  It  was  almost — fantastically — as 
if  the  boy  had  been  a  changeling,  child  of  a  Latmian 
night,  whom  the  divine  companion  of  Mr.  Grew's  early 
reveries  had  secretly  laid  in  the  cradle  of  the  Wingfield 
bedroom  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grew  slept  the  sleep  of 
conjugal  indifference. 

The  young  Mason  Grew  had  not  at  first  accepted  this 
[84] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

astral  episode  as  the  complete  cancelling  of  his  claims 
on  romance.  He  too  had  grasped  at  the  high-hung 
glory;  and,  with  his  tendency  to  reach  too  far  when 
he  reached  at  all,  had  singled  out  the  prettiest  girl 
in  Wingfield.  When  he  recalled  his  stammered  con- 
fession of  love  his  face  still  tingled  under  her  cool 
bright  stare.  His  audacity  had  struck  her  dumb;  and 
when  she  recovered  her  voice  it  was  to  fling  a  taunt  at 
him. 

"Don't  be  too  discouraged,  you  know — have  you 
ever  thought  of  trying  Addie  Wicks?" 

All  Wingfield  would  have  understood  the  gibe: 
Addie  Wicks  was  the  dullest  girl  in  town.  And  a  year 
later  he  had  married  Addie  Wicks.  .  . 

He  looked  up  from  the  perusal  of  Ronald's  telegram 
with  this  memory  in  his  mind.  Now  at  last  his  dream 
was  coming  true!  His  boy  would  taste  of  the  joys 
that  had  mocked  his  thwarted  youth  and  his  dull 
middle-age.  And  it  was  fitting  that  they  should  be  j 
realised  in  Ronald's  destiny.  Ronald  was  made  to  take 
happiness  boldly  by  the  hand  and  lead  it  home  like  a 
bride.  He  had  the  carriage,  the  confidence,  the  high 
faith  in  his  fortune,  that  compel  the  wilful  stars.  And, 
thanks  to  the  Buckle,  he  would  also  have  the  back- 
ground of  material  elegance  that  became  his  conquer- 
ing person.  Since  Mr.  Grew  had  retired  from  business 
[85] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

his  investments  had  prospered,  and  he  had  been  sav- 
ing up  his  income  for  just  such  a  purpose.  ^His  own 
wants  were  few:  he  had  brought  the  Wingfield  furni- 
ture to  Brooklyn,  and  his  sitting-room  was  a  replica 
of  that  in  which  the  long  years  of  his  married  life  had 
been  spent.  Even  the  florid  carpet  on  which  Ronald's 
first  footsteps  had  been  taken  was  carefully  matched 
when  it  became  too  threadbare.  And  on  the  marble 
centre-table,  with  its  beaded  cover  and  bunch  of  dyed 
pampas  grass,  lay  the  illustrated  Longfellow  and  the 
copy  of  Ingersoll's  lectures  which  represented  literature 
to  Mr.  Grew  when  he  had  led  home  his  bride.  In  the 
light  of  Ronald's  romance,  Mr.  Grew  found  himself 
re-living,  with  mingled  pain  and  tenderness,  all  the 
poor  prosaic  incidents  of  his  own  personal  history. 
Curiously  enough,  with  this  new  splendour  on  them 
they  began  to  emit  a  faint  ray  of  their  own.  His  wife's 
armchair,  in  its  usual  place  by  the  fire,  recalled  her 
placid  unperceiving  presence,  seated  opposite  to  him 
during  the  long  drowsy  years;  and  he  felt  her  kindness, 
!her  equanimity,  where  formerly  he  had  only  ached  at 
her  obtuseness.  And  from  the  chair  he  glanced  up  at 
the  discoloured  photograph  on  the  wall  above,  with 
a  withered  laurel  wreath  suspended  on  a  corner  of  the 
frame.  The  photograph  represented  a  young  man  with 
a  poetic  necktie  and  untrammelled  hair,  leaning  against 
a  Gothic  chair-back,  a  roll  of  music  in  his  hand;  and 
[86] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

beneath  was  scrawled  a  bar  of  Chopin,  with  the  words: 
"Adieu,  Adele." 

The  portrait  was  that  of  the  great  pianist,  Fortune 
Dolbrowski;  and  its  presence  on  the  wall  of  Mr.  Grew's 
sitting-room  commemorated  the  only  exquisite  hour 
of  his  life  save  that  of  Ronald's  birth.  It  was  some 
time  before  the  latter  event,  a  few  months  only  after 
Mr.  Grew's  marriage,  that  he  had  [taken  his  wife 
to  New  York  to  hear  the  great  Dolbrowski.  Their 
evening  had  been  magically  beautiful,  and  even  Addie, 
roused  from  her  usual  inexpressiveness,  had  waked 
into  a  momentary  semblance  of  life.  "I  never — I 
never —  •"  she  gasped  out  when  they  had  regained 
their  hotel  bedroom,  and  sat  staring  back  entranced  at 
the  evening's  vision.  Her  large  face  was  pink  and 
tremulous,  and  she  sat  with  her  hands  on  her  knees, 
forgetting  to  roll  up  her  bonnet  strings  and  prepare 
her  curl-papers. 

"I'd  like  to  write  him  just  how  I  felt — I  wisht  I 
knew  how!"  she  burst  out  in  a  final  effervescence  of 
emotion. 

Her  husband  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  her. 

"Would  you?  I  feel  that  way  too,"  he  said  with  a 
sheepish  laugh.  And  they  continued  to  stare  at  each 
other  through  a  transfiguring  mist  of  sound. 

The  scene  rose  before  Mr.  Grew  as  he  gazed  up  at 
the  pianist's  photograph.  "Well,  I  owe  her  that  any- 
[87] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

now — p00r  Addie!"  he  said,  with  a  smile  at  the  incon- 
sequences of  fate.  With  Ronald's  telegram  in  his  hand 
he  was  in  a  mood  to  count  his  mercies. 


Ill 

"A  CLEAR  twenty-five  thousand  a  year:  that's  what  you 
can  tell  'em  with  my  compliments,"  said  Mr.  Grew, 
glancing  complacently  across  the  centre-table  at  his  boy. 

It  struck  him  that  Ronald's  gift  for  looking  his  part 
in  life  had  never  so  completely  expressed  itself.  Other 
young  men,  at  such  a  moment,  would  have  been  red, 
damp,  tight  about  the  collar;  but  Ronald's  cheek  was 
a  shade  paler,  and  the  contrast  made  his  dark  eyes 
more  expressive. 

"A  clear  twenty-five  thousand;  yes,  sir — that's  what 
I  always  meant  you  to  have." 

Mr.  Grew  leaned  carelessly  back,  his  hands  thrust 
in  his  pockets,  as  though  to  divert  attention  from  the 
agitation  of  his  features.  He  had  often  pictured  him- 
self rolling  out  that  phrase  to  Ronald,  and  now  that 
it  was  on  his  lips  he  could  not  control  their  tremor. 

Ronald  listened  in  silence,  lifting  a  hand  to  his  slight 
moustache,  as  though  he,  too,  wished  to  hide  some 
involuntary  betrayal  of  emotion.  At  first  Mr.  Grew 
took  his  silence  for  an  expression  of  gratified  surprise; 
but  as  it  prolonged  itself  it -became  less  easy  to  interpret. 
[88] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

"I — see  here,  my  boy;  did  you  expect  more?  Isn't  it 
enough?"  Mr.  Grew  cleared  his  throat.  "Do  they 
expect  more?"  he  asked  nervously.  He  was  hardly 
able  to  face  the  pain  of  inflicting  a  disappointment  on 
Ronald  at  the  very  moment  when  he  had  counted  on 
putting  the  final  touch  to  his  bliss. 

Ronald  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair  and  his  eyes 
wandered  upward  to  the  laurel-wreathed  photograph 
of  the  pianist. 

"Is  it  the  money,  Ronald?  Speak  out,  my  boy. 
We'll  see,  we'll  look  round — I'll  manage  somehow." 

"No,  no,"  the  young  man  interrupted,  abruptly 
raising  his  hand  as  though  to  check  his  father. 

Mr.  Grew  recovered  his  cheerfulness.  "Well,  what's 
the  trouble  then,  if  she's  willing?" 

Ronald  shifted  his  position  again  and  finally  rose 
from  his  seat  and  wandered  across  the  room. 

"Father,"  he  said,  coming  back,  "there's  something 
I've  got  to  tell  you.  I  can't  take  your  money." 

Mr.  Grew  sat  speechless  a  moment,  staring  blankly 
at  his  son;  then  he  emitted  a  laugh.  "My  money? 
What  are  you  talking  about?  What's  this  about  my 
money?  Why,  it  ain't  mine,  Ronny;  it's  all  yours 
— every  cent  of  it!" 

The  young  man  met  his  tender  look  with  a  gesture 
of  tragic  refusal. 

"No,  no,  it's  not  mine — not  even  in  the  sense  you 
[89] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

mean.  Not  in  any  sense.  Can't  you  understand  my 
feeling  so  ?  " 

"Feeling  so?  I  don't  know  how  you're  feeling.  I 
don't  know  what  you're  talking  about.  Are  you  too- 
proud  to  touch  any  money  you  haven't  earned?  Is 
that  what  you're  trying  to  tell  me?" 

"No.  It's  not  that.  You  must  know 

Mr.  Grew  flushed  to  the  rim  of  his  bristling  whis- 
kers. "Know?  Know  what?  Can't  you  speak  out?" 

Ronald  hesitated,  and  the  two  faced  each  other  for  a 
long  strained  moment,  during  which  Mr.  Grew's  con- 
gested countenance  grew  gradually  pale  again. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  this?  Is  it  because  you've 
done  something  .  .  .  something  you're  ashamed  of  ... 
ashamed  to  tell  me  ? "  he  gasped ;  and  walking  around 
the  table  he  laid  his  hand  gently  on  his  son's  shoulder. 
"There's  nothing  you  can't  tell  me,  my  boy." 

"It's  not  that.  Why  do  you  make  it  so  hard  for  me  ?" 
Ronald  broke  out  with  passion.  "You  must  have 
known  this  was  sure  to  happen  sooner  or  later." 

"Happen  ?  What  was  sure  to  hap ? "  Mr.  Grew's 

question  wavered  on  his  lip  and  passed  into  a  tremu- 
lous laugh.  "Is  it  something  I've  done  that  you  don't 
approve  of?  Is  it — is  it  the  Buckle  you're  ashamed  of, 
Ronald  Grew?" 

Ronald  laughed  too,  impatiently.  "The  Buckle? 
No,  I'm  not  ashamed  of  the  Buckle;  not  any  more 
[90] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

than  you  are,"  he  returned  with  a  flush.   "But  I'm 
ashamed  of  all  I  owe  to  it — all  I  owe  to  you — when — 

when "  He  broke  off  and  took  a  few  distracted 

steps  across  the  room.  "You  might  make  this  easier 
for  me,"  he  protested,  turning  back  to  his  father. 

"  Make  what  easier  ?  I  know  less  and  less  what  you're 
driving  at,"  Mr.  Grew  groaned. 

Ronald's  walk  had  once  more  brought  him  beneath 
the  photograph  on  the  wall.  He  lifted  his  head  for  a 
moment  and  looked  at  it;  then  he  looked  again  at  Mr. 
Grew. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  haven't  always  known?" 

"Known ?" 

"Even  before  you  gave  me  those  letters  at  the  time  of 
my  mother's  death — even  before  that,  I  suspected.  I 
don't  know  how  it  began  .  .  .  perhaps  from  little  things 
you  let  drop  .  .  .  you  and  she  .  .  .  and  resemblances  that 
I  couldn't  help  seeing  ...  in  myself  .  .  .  How  on  earth 
could  you  suppose  I  shouldn't  guess  f  I  always  thought 
you  gave  me  the  letters  as  a  way  of  telling  me — 

Mr.  Grew  rose  slowly  from  his  chair.  "The  letters? 
Do  you  mean  Dolbrowski's  letters?" 

Ronald  nodded  with  white  lips.  "You  must  remem- 
ber giving  them  to  me  the  day  after  the  funeral." 

Mr.  Grew  nodded  back.  "Of  course.  I  wanted  you 
to  have  everything  your  mother  valued." 

"Well — how  could  I  help  knowing  after  that?" 
[91] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

"Knowing  what?"  Mr.  Grew  stood  staring  help- 
lessly at  his  son.  Suddenly  his  look  caught  at  a  clue 
that  seemed  to  confront  it  with  a  deeper  difficulty. 
"You  thought — you  thought  those  letters  .  .  .  Dol- 
browski's  letters  .  .  .  you  thought  they  meant  ..." 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  only  the  letters.  There  were  so  many 
other  signs.  My  love  of  music — my — all  my  feelings 
about  life  .  .  .  and  art.  .  .  And  when  you  gave  me  the 
letters  I  thought  you  must  mean  me  to  know." 

Mr.  Grew  had  grown  quiet.  His  lips  were  firm,  and 
his  small  eyes  looked  out  steadily  from  their  creased 
lids. 

"To  know  that  you  were  Fortune  Dolbrowski's 
son?" 

Ronald  made  a  mute  sign  of  assent. 

"I  see.  And  what  did  you  intend  to  do?" 

"I  meant  to  wait  till  I  could  earn  my  living,  and 
then  repay  you  ...  as  far  as  I  can  ever  repay  you.  .  . 
for  what  you'd  spent  on  me.  .  .  But  now  that  there's  a 
chance  of  my  marrying  .  .  .  and  that  your  generosity 
overwhelms  me  ...  I'm  obliged  to  speak." 

"I  see,"  said  Mr.  Grew  again.  He  let  himself  down 
into  his  chair,  looking  steadily  and  not  unkindly  at 
the  young  man.  "Sit  down  too,  Ronald.  Let's  talk." 

Ronald  made  a  protesting  movement.  "Is  anything 
to  be  gained  by  it?  You  can't  change  me— change 
what  I  feel.  The  reading  of  those  letters  transformed 
[92  ] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

my  whole  life — I  was  a  boy  till  then:  they  made  a  man 
of  me.  From  that  moment  I  understood  myself."  He 
paused,  and  then  looked  up  at  Mr.  Grew's  face. 
"Don't  imagine  that  I  don't  appreciate  your  kindness — 
your  extraordinary  generosity.  But  I  can't  go  through 
life  in  disguise.  And  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  have 
not  won  Daisy  under  false  pretences " 

Mr.  Grew  started  up  with  the  first  expletive  Ronald 
had  ever  heard  on  his  lips. 

"You  damned  young  fool,  you,  you  haven't  told 
her ?" 

Ronald  raised  his  head  with  pride.  "Oh,  you  don't 
know  her,  sir!  She  thinks  no  worse  of  me  for  knowing 
my  secret.  She  is  above  and  beyond  all  such  conven- 
tional prejudices.  She's  proud  of  my  parentage —  "  he 
straightened  his  slim  young  shoulders — "as  I'm  proud 
of  it ...  yes,  sir,  proud  of  it.  .  ." 

Mr.  Grew  sank  back  into  his  seat  with  a  dry  laugh. 
"Well,  you  ought  to  be.  You  come  of  good  stock. 
And  you're  your  father's  son,  every  inch  of  you ! "  He 
laughed  again,  as  though  the  humour  of  the  situation 
grew  on  him  with  its  closer  contemplation. 

"Yes,  I've  always  felt  that,"  Ronald  murmured, 
gravely. 

"Your  father's  son,  and  no  mistake."  Mr.   Grew 
leaned  forward.  "You're  the  son  of  as  big  a  fool  as 
yourself.  And  here  he  sits,  Ronald  Grew!" 
[93] 


HIS  FATHER'S   SON 

The  young  man's  colour  deepened' to  crimson;  but 
his  reply  was  checked  by  Mr.  Grew's  decisive  gesture. 
"Here  he  sits,  with  all  your  young  nonsense  still  alive 
in  him.  Don't  you  begin  to  see  the  likeness  ?  If  you 
don't  I'll  tell  you  the  story  of  those  letters." 

Ronald  stared.  "What  do  you  mean?  Don't  they 
tell  their  own  story  ?  " 

"I  supposed  they  did  when  I  gave  them  to  you;  but 
you've  given  it  a  twist  that  needs  straightening  out." 
Mr.  Grew  squared  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  looked 
at  the  young  man  across  the  gift-books  and  dyed  pam- 
pas grass.  "I  wrote  all  the  letters  that  Dolbrowski 
answered." 

Ronald  gave  back  his  look  in  frowning  perplexity. 
"You  wrote  them?  I  don't  understand.  His  letters  are 
all  addressed  to  my  mother." 

"Yes.  And  he  thought  he  was  corresponding  with 
her." 

"But  my  mother— what  did  she  think?" 

Mr.  Grew  hesitated,  puckering  his  thick  lids.  "Well, 
I  guess  she  kinder  thought  it  was  a  joke.  Your  mother 
didn't  think  about  things  much." 

Ronald  continued  to  bend  a  puzzled  frown  on  the 
question.  "I  don't  understand,"  he  reiterated. 

Mr.  Grew  cleared  his  throat  with  a  nervous  laugh. 
"Well,  I  don't  know  as  you  ever  will— quite.  But  this 
is  the  way  it  came  about.  I  had  a  toughish  time  of  it 
[  94  ] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

when  I  was  young.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  so  much  the  fight 
I  had  to  put  up  to  make  my  way — there  was  always 
plenty  of  fight  in  me.  But  inside  of  myself  it  was  kinder 
lonesome.  And  the  outside  didn't  attract  callers."  He 
laughed  again,  with  an  apologetic  gesture  toward  his 
broad  blinking  face.  "When  I  went  round  with  the 
other  young  fellows  I  was  always  the  forlorn  hope — 
the  one  that  had  to  eat  the  drumsticks  and  dance  with 
the  left-overs.  As  sure  as  there  was  a  blighter  at  a  pic- 
nic I  had  to  swing  her,  and  feed  her,  and  drive  her 
home.  And  all  the  time  I  was  mad  after  all  the  things 
you've  got — poetry  and  music  and  all  the  joy-forever 
business.  So  there  were  the  pair  of  us — my  face  and 
my  imagination — chained  together,  and  fighting,  and 
hating  each  other  like  poison. 

"Then  your  mother  came  along  and  took  pity  on 
me.  It  sets  up  a  gawky  fellow  to  find  a  girl  who  ain't 
ashamed  to  be  seen  walking  with  him  Sundays.  And 
I  was  grateful  to  your  mother,  and  we  got  along  first- 
rate.  Only  I  couldn't  say  things  to  her — and  she  couldn't 
answer.  Well — one  day,  a  few  months  after  we  were 
married,  Dolbrowski  came  to  New  York,  and  the 
whole  place  went  wild  about  him.  I'd  never  heard  any 
good  music,  but  I'd  always  had  an  inkling  of  what  it 
must  be  like,  though  I  couldn't  tell  you  to  this  day  how 
I  knew.  Well,  your  mother  read  about  him  in  the  papers' 
too,  and  she  thought  it'd  be  the  swagger  thing  to  go 
[95] 

»-^ 
-  V'^ 

"X 

-I" 


HIS  FATHER'S   SON 

to  New  York  and  hear  him  play— so  we  went.  .  .  I'll 
never  forget  that  evening.  Your  mother  wasn't  easily 
stirred  up— she  never  seemed  to  need  to  let  off  steam. 
But  that  night  she  seemed  to  understand  the  way  I  felt. 
And  when  we  got  back  to  the  hotel  she  said  to  me: 
'I'd  like  to  tell  him  how  I  feel.  I'd  like  to  sit  right  down 
and  write  to  him.' 

"'Would  you?'  I  said.  'So  would  I.' 

"There  was  paper  and  pens  there  before  us,  and  I 
pulled  a  sheet  toward  me,  and  began  to  write.  'Is  this 
what  you'd  like  to  say  to  him  ? '  I  asked  her  when  the 
letter  was  done.  And  she  got  pink  and  said:  'I  don't 
understand  it,  but  it's  lovely.'  And  she  copied  it  out 
and  signed  her  name  to  it,  and  sent  it." 

Mr.  Grew  paused,  and  Ronald  sat  silent,  with  lowered 
eyes. 

"That's  how  it  began;  and  that's  where  I  thought 
it  would  end.  But  it  didn't,  because  Dolbrowski  an- 
swered. His  first  letter  was  dated  January  10,  1872. 
I  guess  you'll  find  I'm  correct.  Well,  I  went  back  to 
hear  him  again,  and  I  wrote  him  after  the  performance, 
and  he  answered  again.  And  after  that  we  kept  it  up  for 
six  months.  Your  mother  always  copied  the  letters  and 
signed  them.  She  seemed  to  think  it  was  a  kinder  joke, 
and  she  was  proud  of  his  answering  my  letters.  But 
she  never  went  back  to  New  York  to  hear  him,  though 
I  saved  up  enough  to  give  her  the  treat  again.  She  was 
[96] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

too  lazy,  and  she  let  me  go  without  her.  I  heard  him 
three  times  in  New  York;  and  in  the  spring  he  came  to 
Wingfield  and  played  once  at  the  Academy.  Your 
mother  was  sick  and  couldn't  go;  so  I  went  alone. 
After  the  performance  I  meant  to  get  one  of  the  direc- 
tors to  take  me  in  to  see  him;  but  when  the  time  came, 
I  just  went  back  home  and  wrote  to  him  instead.  And 
the  month  after,  before  he  went  back  to  Europe,  he 
sent  your  mother  a  last  little  note,  and  that  picture 
hanging  up  there.  .  ." 

Mr.  Grew  paused  again,  and  both  men  lifted  their 
eyes  to  the  photograph. 

"Is  that  all?"  Ronald  slowly  asked. 

"That's  all— every  bit  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Grew. 

"And  my  mother — my  mother  never  even  spoke  to 
Dolbrowski  ?  " 

"Never.  She  never  even  saw  him  but  that  once  in 
New  York  at  his  concert." 

The  blood  crept  again  to  Ronald's  face.  "Are  you 
sure  of  that,  sir  ? "  he  asked  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"Sure  as  I  am  that  I'm  sitting  here.  Why,  she  was 
too  lazy  to  look  at  his  letters  after  the  first  novelty  wore 
off.  She  copied  the  answers  just  to  humour  me — but  she 
always  said  she  couldn't  understand  what  we  wrote." 

"But  how  could  you  go  on  with  such  a  correspond- 
ence ?  It's  incredible ! " 

.Mr.  Grew  looked  at  his  son  thoughtfully.  "I  suppose 
[97] 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

it  is,  to  you.  You've  only  had  to  put  out  your  hand  and 
get  the  things  I  was  starving  for — music,  and  good  talk, 
and  ideas.  Those  letters  gave  me  all  that.  You've  read 
them,  and  you  know  that  Dolbrowski  was  not  only  a 
great  musician  but  a  great  man.  There  was  nothing 
beautiful  he  didn't  see,  nothing  fine  he  didn't  feel. 
For  six  months  I  breathed  his  air,  and  I've  lived  on  it 
ever  since.  Do  you  begin  to  understand  a  little  now  ?  " 

"  Yes — a  little.  But  why  write  in  my  mother's  name  ? 
Why  make  it  appear  like  a  sentimental  correspondence  ?  " 

Mr.  Grew  reddened  to  his  bald  temples.  "Why,  I 
tell  you  it  began  that  way,  as  a  kinder  joke.  And  when 
I  saw  that  the  first  letter  pleased  and  interested  him, 
I  was  afraid  to  tell  him — I  couldn't  tell  him.  Do  you 
suppose  he'd  gone  on  writing  if  he'd  ever  seen  me, 
Ronny?" 

Ronald  suddenly  looked  at  him  with  new  eyes.  "But 
he  must  have  thought  your  letters  very  beautiful— to 
go  on  as  he  did,"  he  broke  out. 

"Well— I  did  my  best,"  said  Mr.  Grew  modesfly. 

Ronald  pursued  his  idea.  "Where  are  all  your  letters, 
I  wonder?  Weren't  they  returned  to  you  aUiis  death?" 

Mr.  Grew  laughed.  "Lord,  no.  I  guess  he  had 
trunks  and  trunks  full  of  better  ones.  I  guess  Queens 
and  Empresses  wrote  to  him." 

"I  should  have  liked  to  see  your  letters,"  the  young 
man  insisted. 

/,  (  <«  1 


HIS   FATHER'S   SON 

"Well,  they  weren't  bad,"  said  Mr.  Grew  drily. 
"But  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Ronny,"  he  added. 
Ronald  raised  his  head  with  a  quick  glance,  and 
Mr.  Grew  continued:  "I'll  tell  you  where  the  best  of 
those  letters  is — it's  in  you.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that 
one  look  at  life  I  couldn't  have  made  you  what  you  are. 
Oh,  I  know  you've  done  a  good  deal  of  your  own  making 
— but  I've  been  there  behind  you  all  the  time.  And  you'll 
never  know  the  work  I've  spared  you  and  the  time  I've 
saved  you.  Fortune  Dolbrowski  helped  me  do  that. 
I  never  saw  things  in  little  again  after  I'd  looked  at  'em 
with  him.  And  I  tried  to  give  you  the  big  view  from  the 
start.  .  .  So  that's  what  became  of  my  letters." 

Mr.  Grew  paused,  and  for  a  long  time  Ronald  sat 
motionless,  his  elbows  on  the  table,  his  face  dropped  on 
his  hands. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Grew's  touch  fell  on  his  shoulder. 

"Look  at  here,  Ronald  Grew — do  you  want  me  to 
telj  you  how  you're  feeling  at  this  minute  ?  Just  a  mite 
let  down,  after  all,  at  the  idea  that  you  ain't  the  roman- 
tic figuffc  you'd_got  to  think  yourself.  .  .  Well,  that's 
natural  enough,  too;  but  I'll  tell  you  what  it  proves.  It 
proves  you're  my  son  right  enough,  if  any  more  proof 
was  needed.  For  it's  just  the  kind  of  fool  nonsense  I 
used  to  feel  at  your  age — and  if  there's  anybody  here 
to  laugh  at  it's  myself,  and  not  you.  And  you  can  laugh 
at  me  just  as  much  as  you  like.  . 
[99] 


THE    DAUNT    DIANA 


THE    DAUNT    DIANA 


"TT  THAT'S  become  of  the  Daunt  Diana?  You 
V  V  mean  to  say  you  never  heard  the  sequel?" 
Ringham  Finney  threw  himself  back  into  his  chair 
with  the  smile  of  the  collector  who  has  a  good  thing 
to  show.  He  knew  he  had  a  good  listener,  at  any  rate. 
I  don't  think  much  of  Ringham 's  snuff-boxes,  but  his 
anecdotes  are  usually  worth  while.  He's  a  psychologist 
astray  among  bibelots,  and  the  best  bits  he  brings  back 
from  his  raids  on  Christie's  and  the  Hotel  Drouot  are 
the  fragments  of  human  nature  he  picks  up  on  those 
historic  battle-fields.  If  his  flair  in  enamel  had  been  half 
as  good  we  should  have  heard  of  the  Finney  collection 
by  this  time. 

He  really  has — queer  fatuous  investigator! — an  un- 
usually sensitive  touch  for  the  human  texture,  and  the 
specimens  he  gathers  into  his  museum  of  memories 
have  almost  always  some  mark  of  the  rare  and  chosen. 
I  felt,  therefore,  that  I  was  really  to  be  congratulated 
on  the  fact  that  I  didn't  know  what  had  become  of  the 
Daunt  Diana,  and  on  having  before  me  a  long  evening 
[  103  ] 


THE   DAUNT   DIANA 

in  which  to  learn.  I  had  just  led  my  friend  back,  after 
an  excellent  dinner  at  Foyot's,  to  the  shabby  pleasant 
sitting-room  of  my  Rive  Gauche  hotel;  and  I  knew 
that,  once  I  had  settled  him  in  a  good  arm-chair,  and 
put  a  box  of  cigars  at  his  elbow,  I  could  trust  him  not 
to  budge  till  I  had  the  story. 


II 

You  remember  old  Neave,  of  course  ?  Little  Humphrey 
Neave,  I  mean.  We  used  to  see  him  pottering  about 
Rome  years  ago.  He  lived  in  two  rooms  over  a  wine 
shop,  on  polenta  and  lentils,  and  prowled  among  the 
refuse  of  the  Ripetta  whenever  he  had  a  few  coppers 
to  spend.  But  you've  been  out  of  the  collector's  world 
for  so  long  that  you  may  not  know  what  happened  to 
him  afterward.  .  . 

He  was  always  a  queer  chap,  Neave;  years  older  than 
you  and  me,  of  course — and  even  when  I  first  knew 
him,  in  my  raw  Roman  days,  he  produced  on  me  an 
unusual  impression  of  age  and  experience.  I  don't 
think  I've  ever  known  any  one  who  was  at  once  so 
intelligent  and  so  simple.  It's  the  precise  combination 
that  results  in  romance;  and  poor  little  Neave  was 
romantic. 

He  told  me  once  how  he'd  come  to  Rome.  He  was 
originaire  of  Mystic,  Connecticut— and  he  wanted  to 
[  104  ] 


THE   DAUNT   DIANA 

get  as  far  away  from  it  as  possible.  Rome  seemed  as 
far  as  anything  on  the  same  planet  could  be;  and  after 
he'd  worried  his  way  through  Harvard — with  shifts 
and  shavings  that  you  and  I  can't  imagine — he  con- 
trived to  be  sent  to  Switzerland  as  tutor  to  a  chap 
who'd  failed  in  his  examinations.  With  only  the  Alps 
between,  he  wasn't  likely  to  turn  back;  and  he  got 
another  fellow  to  take  his  pupil  home,  and  struck  out 
on  foot  for  the  seven  hills. 

I'm  telling  you  these  early  details  merely  to  give 
you  a  notion  of  the  man.  There  was  a  cool  per- 
sistency and  a  head-long  courage  in  his  dash  for  Rome 
that  one  wouldn't  have  guessed  in  the  pottering  chap 
we  used  to  know.  Once  on  the  spot,  he  got  more 
tutoring,  managed  to  make  himself  a  name  for  coaxing 
balky  youths  to  take  their  fences,  and  was  finally  able 
to  take  up  the  more  congenial  task  of  expounding  "the 
antiquities"  to  cultured  travellers.  I  call  it  more  con- 
genial— but  how  it  must  have  seared  his  soul!  Fancy 
unveiling  the  sacred  scars  of  Time  to  ladies  who  murmur: 
"Was  this  actually  the  spot — ?"  while  they  absently 
feeL-for  their  hat-pins!  He  used  to  say  that  nothing 
kept  him  at  it  but  the  exquisite  thought  of  accumulating 
the  lire  for  his  collection.  For  the  Neave  collection,  my 
dear  fellow,  began  early,  began  almost  with  his  Roman 
life,  began  in  a  series  of  little  nameless  odds  and  ends, 
broken  trinkets,  torn  embroideries,  the  amputated  ex- 
[  105  ] 


THE   DAUNT  DIANA 

tremities  of  maimed  marbles:  things  that  even  the  rag- 
picker had  pitched  away  when  he  sifted  his  haul.  But 
they  weren't  nameless  or  meaningless  to  Neave;  his 
strength  lay  in  his  instinct  for  identifying,  putting  to- 
gether, seeing  significant  relations.  He  was  a  regular 
Cuvier  of  bric-a-brac.  And  during  those  early  years, 
when  he  had  time  to  brood  over  trifles  and  note  im- 
perceptible differences,  he  gradually  sharpened  his 
instinct,  and  made  it  into  the  delicate  and  redoubtable 
instrument  it  is.  Before  he  had  a  thousand  francs'  worth 
of  anticaglie  to  his  name  he  began  to  be  known  as  an 
expert,  and  the  big  dealers  were  glad  to  consult  him. 
But  we're  getting  no  nearer  the  Daunt  Diana.  .  . 

Well,  some  fifteen  years  ago,  in  London,  I  ran  across 
Neave  at  Christie's.  He  was  the  same  little  man  we'd 
known,  effaced,  bleached,  indistinct,  like  a  poor  "im- 
pression"— as  unnoticeable  as  one  of  his  own  early 
finds,  yet,  like  them,  with  a  quality,  if  one  had  an  eye 
for  it.  He  told  me  he  s'ill  lived  in  Rome,  and  had 
contrived,  by  persistent  self-denial,  to  get  a  few  bits 
together— "piecemeal,  little  by  little,  with  fasting  and 
prayer;  and  I  mean  the  fasting  literally!"  he  said. 

He  had  run  over  to  London  for  his  annual  "look- 
round" — I  fancy  one  or  another  of  the  big  collectors 
usually  paid  his  journey — and  when  we  met  he  was  on 
his  way  to  see  the  Daunt  collection.  You  know  old 
Daunt  was  a  surly  brute,  and  the  things  weren't  easily 
[  106  ] 


THE   DAUNT   DIANA 

seen;  but  he  had  heard  Neave  was  in  London,  and  had 
sent — yes,  actually  sent! — for  him  to  come  and  give 
his  opinion  on  a  few  bits,  including  the  Diana.  The 
little  man  bore  himself  discreetly,  but  you  can  imagine 
how  proud  he  was!  In  his  exultation  he  asked  me  to 
come  with  him — "Oh,  I've  the  grandes  et  petites  en- 
trees, my  dear  fellow :  I've  made  my  conditions — "  and 
so  it  happened  that  I  saw  the  first  meeting  between 
Humphrey  Neave  and  his  fate. 

For  that  collection  was  his  fate:  or,  one  may  say,  it 
was  embodied  in  the  Diana  who  was  queen  and  god- 
dess of  the  realm.  Yes — I  shall  always  be  glad  I  was 
with  Neave  when  he  had  his  first  look  at  the  Diana. 
I  see  him  now,  blinking  at  her  through  his  white  lashes, 
and  stroking  his  wisp  of  a  moustache  to  hide  a  twitch 
of  the  muscles.  It  was  all  very  quiet,  but  it  was  the 
coup  de  foudre.  I  could  see  that  by  the  way  his  hands 
worked  when  he  turned  away  and  began  to  examine 
the  other  things.  You  remember  Neave 's  hands — 
thin  and  dry,  with  long  inquisitive  fingers  thrown  out 
like  antennae  ?  Whatever  they  hold  —  bronze  or  lace, 
enamel  or  glass — they  seem  to  acquire  the  very  texture 
of  the  thing,  and  to  draw  out  of  it,  by  every  finger-tip, 
the  essence  it  has  secreted.  Well,  that  day,  as  he  moved 
about  among  Daunt's  treasures,  the  Diana  followed 
him  everywhere.  He  didn't  U>ok  back  at  her — he  gave 
himself  to  the  business  he  was  there  for — but  whatever 
[  107  ] 


\ 


THE   DAUNT   DIANA 

he  touched,  he  felt  her.  And  on  the  threshold  he  turned 
and  gave  her  his  first  free  look — the  kind  of  look  that 
says:  "  You're  mine." 

It  amused  me  at  the  time — the  idea  of  little  Neave 
making  eyes  at  any  of  Daunt's  belongings.  He  might 
as  well  have  coquetted  with  the  Kohinoor.  And  the 
same  idea  seemed  to  strike  him ;  for  as  we  turned  away 
from  the  big  house  in  Belgravia  he  glanced  up  at  it 
and  said,  with  a  bitterness  I'd  never  heard  in  him: 
"Good  Lord!  To  think  of  that  lumpy  fool  having  those 
things  to  handle!  Did  you  notice  his  stupid  stumps  of 
fingers?  I  suppose  he  blunted  them  gouging  nuggets 
out  of  gold  fields.  And  in  exchange  for  the  nuggets 
he  gets  all  that  in  a  year — only  has  to  hold  out  his 
callous  palm  to  have  that  ripe  sphere  of  beauty  drop 
into  it!  That's  my  idea  of  heaven — to  have  a  great 
collection  drop  into  one's  hand,  as  success,  or  love,  or 
any  of  the  big  shining  things,  suddenly  drop  on  some 
men.  And  I've  had  to  worry  along  for  nearly  fifty  years," 
saving  and  paring,  and  haggling  and  managing,  to  get 
here  a  bit  and  there  a  bit — and  not  one  perfection  in  the 
lot!  It's  enough  to  poison  a  man's  life." 

The  outbreak  was  so  unlike  Neave  that  I  remember 
every  word  of  it:  remember,  too,  saying  in  answer: 
"But,  look  here,  Neave,  you  wouldn't  take  Daunt's 
hands  for  yours,  I  imagine  ?  " 

He  stared  a  moment  and  smiled.  "Have  all  that,  and 
[108  ] 


THE   DAUNT   DIANA 

grope  my  way  through  it  like  a  blind  cave  fish  ?  What 
a  question !  But  the  sense  that  it's  always  the  blind  fish 
that  live  in  that  kind  of  aquarium  is  what  makes 
anarchists,  sir!"  He  looked  back  from  the  corner  of 
the  square,  wherejSM^8tt*paused  while  he  delivered 
himself  of  thi^fejmafkable  metaphor.  "God,  I'd  like  to 
throw  a  htfnob^at  that  place,  and  be  in  at  the  looting!" 

And' with  that,  on  the  way  home,  he  unpacked  his 
grie^raace — ptflled  .the  bandage  off  the  wound,  and 
showed  me  the  ugly  mark  it  made  on  his  ittle  white 
soul,  jf 

It  wasn't  the  struggling,  screwing,  stinting,  self-deny- 
ing that  galled  him — it  was  the  smallness  of  the  result. 
It  was,  in  short,  the  old  tragedy  of  the  discrepancy  be- 
fyween  a  man's  wants  and  his  power  to  gratify  them. 
jNeave's  taste  was  too  fine-  for  his  means — was  like 
jgome  strange,  delicate,  capricious  animal,  that  he  cher- 
ji$hexi  and  pampered  and  couldn't  satisfy. 
I  \"Don't  you  know  those  little  glittering  lizards  that 
jjf  they're  not  fed  on  some  rare  tropical  fly  ?  Well, 

my  taste's  like  that,  with  one  important  difference — 

_ 

if  it  doesn't  get  its  fly,  it  simply  turns  and  feeds  on  me.  / 

Oh,  it  (Jqesn't  die,  my  taste — worse  luck!  It  gets  larger 
and  stronger,  and  more  fastidious,  and  takes  a  .bigger 
bite  of  me-^— tha 

That  was  alk^Year  byyear,  day  Byoky,  he  had  made 
himself  into  this  Delicate  register  of  perceptions  and 

^^5**,,  —— 

[109] 


THE   DAUNT  DIANA 

sensations— as  far  above  the  ordinary  human  faculty 
of  appreciation  as  some  scientific  registering  instrument 
is  beyond  the  rough  human  senses— only  to  find  that 
the  beauty  which  alone  could  satisfy  him  was  unattain- 
able, that  he  was  never  to  know  the  last  deep  identifi- 
cation which  only  possession  can  give.  He  had  trained 
himself,  in  short,  to  feel,  in  the  rare  great  thing— such  an 
utterance  of  beauty  as  the  Daunt  Diana,  say — a  hun- 
dred elements  of  perfection,  a  hundred  reasons  why, 
imperceptible,  inexplicable  even,  to  the  average  "artis- 
tic" sense;  he  had  reached  this  point  by  a  long  proc- 
ess of  discrimination  and  rejection,  the  renewed  great 
refusals  of  the  intelligence  which  perpetually  asks 
more,  which  will  make  no  pact  with  its  self  of  yester- 
day, and  is  never  to  be  beguiled  from  its  purpose  by 
the  wiles  of  the  next-best-thing.  Oh,  it's  a  poignant 
case,  but  not  a  common  one;  for  the  next-best-thing 
usually  wins.  .  . 

You  see,  the  worst  of  Neave's  state  was  the  fact  of 
his  not  being  a  mere  collector,  even  the  collector 
raised  to  his  highest  pitch.  The  whole  thing  was 
blent  in  him  with  poetry — his  imagination  had  roman- 
ticised the  acquisitive  instinct,  as  the  religious  feeling 
of  the  Middle  Ages  turned  passion  into  love.  And 
yet  his  could  never  be  the  abstract  enjoyment  of  the 
philosopher  who  says:  "This  or  that  object  is  really 
mine  because  I'm  capable  of  appreciating  it."  Neave 
[110] 


THE   DAUNT   DIANA 

wanted  what  he  appreciated — wanted  it  with  his  touch 
and  his  sight  as  well  as  with  his  brain. 

It  was  hardly  a  year  afterward  that,  coming  back  from 
a  long  tour  in  India,  I  picked  up  a  London  paper  and 
read  the  amazing  headline:  "Mr.  Humphrey  Neave 
buys  the  Daunt  collection.  .  . "  I  rubbed  my  eyes  and 
read  again.  Yes,  it  could  only  be  our  old  friend  Hum- 
phrey. "An  American  living  in  Rome  .  .  .  one  of  our 
most  discerning  collectors";  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  description.  I  bolted  out  to  see  the  first  dealer  I 
could  find,  and  there  I  had  the  incredible  details. 
Neave  had  come  into  a  fortune — two  or  three  million 
dollars,  amassed  by  an  uncle  who  had  a  corset-factory, 
and  who  had  attained  wealth  as  the  creator  of  the 
Mystic  Super-straight.  (Corset-factory  sounds  odd,  by 
the  way,  doesn't  it?  One  had  fancied  that  the  corset 
was  a  personal,  a  highly  specialised  garment,  more  or 
less  shaped  on  the  form  it  was  o  modify;  but,  after 
all,  the  Tanagras  were  all  made  from  two  or  three 
moulds — and  so,  I  suppose,  are  the  ladies  who  wear 
the  Mystic  Super-straight.) 

The  uncle  had  a  son,  and  Neave  had  never  dreamed 
of  seeing  a  penny  of  the  money;  but  the  son  died  sud- 
denly, and  the  father  followed,  leaving  a  codicil  that 
gave  everything  to  our  friend.  Humphrey  had  to  go 
out  to  "realise"  on  the  corset-factory;  and  his  descrip- 


THE   DAUNT  DIANA 

tion  of  that .  .  !  Well,  he  came  back  with  his  money 
in  his  pocket,  and  the  day  he  landed  old  Daunt  went 
to  smash.  It  all  fitted  in  like  a  puzzle.  I  believe  Neave 
drove  straight  from  Euston  to  Daunt  House:  at  any 
rate,  within  two  months  the  collection  was  his,  and  at 
a  price  that  made  the  trade  sit  up.  Trust  old  Daunt 
for  that! 

I  was  in  Rome  the  following  spring,  and  you'd  better 
believe  I  looked  him  up.  A  big  porter  glared  at  me 
from  the  door  of  the  Palazzo  Neave:  I  had  almost  to 
produce  my  passport  to  get  in.  But  that  wasn't  Neave's 
fault — the  poor  fellow  was  so  beset  by  people  clamour- 
ing to  see  his  collection  that  he  had  to  barricade  him- 
self, literally.  When  I  had  mounted  the  state  Scalone, 
and  come  on  him,  at  the  end  of  half  a  dozen  echoing 
saloons,  in  the  farthest,  smallest  reduit  of  the  suite,  I  re- 
ceived the  same  welcome  that  he  used  to  give  us  in  his 
den  over  the  wine  shop. 

"Well— so  you've  got  her?"  I  said.  For  I'd  caught 
sight  of  the  Diana  in  passing  against  the  bluish  blur 
of  an  old  verdure — just  the  background  for  her  hover- 
ing loveliness.  Only  I  rather  wondered  why  she  wasn't 
in  the  room  where  he  sat. 

He  smiled.  "Yes,  I've  got  her,"  he  returned,  more 
calmly  than  I  had  expected. 

"And  all  the  rest  of  the  loot  ?" 

"Yes.  I  had  to  buy  the  lump." 
[  112] 


THE   DAUNT   DIANA 

"Had  to  ?  But  you  wanted  to,  didn't  you  ?  You  used 
to  say  it  was  your  idea  of  heaven — to  stretch  out  your 
hand  and  have  a  great  ripe  sphere  of  beauty  drop  into 
it.  I'm  quoting  your  own  words,  by  the  way." 

Neave  blinked  and  stroked  his  seedy  moustache. 
"Oh,  yes.  I  remember  the  phrase.  It's  true — it  is  the 
last  luxury."  He  paused,  as  if  seeking  a  pretext  for  his 
lack  of  warmth.  "The  thing  that  bothered  me  was 
having  to  move.  I  couldn't  cram  all  the  stuff  into  my 
old  quarters." 

"Well,  I  should  say  not!  This  is  rather  a  better 
setting." 

He  got  up.  "Come  and  take  a  look  round.  I  want 
o  show  you  two  or  three  things — new  attributions  I've 
made.  I'm  doing  the  catalogue  over." 

The  interest  of  showing  me  the  things  seemed  to 
dispel  the  vague  apathy  I  had  felt  in  him.  He  grew 
keen  again  in  detailing  his  redistribution  of  values,  and 
above  all  in  convicting  old  Daunt  and  his  advisers 
of  their  repeated  aberrations  of  judgment.  "The  mir- 
acle is  that  he  should  have  got  such  things,  knowing  as 
little  as  he  did  what  he  was  getting.  And  the  egregious 
asses  who  bought  for  him  were  no  better,  were  worse 
in  fact,  since  they  had  all  sorts  of  humbugging  wrong 
reasons  for  admiring  what  old  Daunt  simply  coveted 
because  it  belonged  to  some  other  rich  man." 

Never  had  Neave  had  so  wondrous  a  field  for  the 
[ 


THE   DAUNT  DIANA 

exercise  of  his  perfected  faculty;  and  I  saw  then  how 
in  the  real,  the  great  collector's  appreciations  the  keen- 
est scientific  perception  is  suffused  with  imaginative 
sensibility,  and  how  it  is  to  the  latter  undefinable  quality 
that  in  the  last  resort  he  trusts  himself. 

Nevertheless,  I  still  felt  the  shadow  of  that  hovering 
apathy,  and  he  knew  I  felt  it,  and  was  always  breaking 
off  to  give  me  reasons  for  it.  For  one  thing,  he  wasn't 
used  to  his  new  quarters — hated  their  bigness  and 
formality;  then  the  requests  to  show  his  things  drove 
him  mad.  "The  women — oh,  the  women!"  he  wailed, 
and  interrupted  himself  to  describe  a  heavy-footed 
German  princess  who  had  marched  past  his  treasures  as 
if  she  were  reviewing  a  cavalry  regiment,  applying  an 
unmodulated  Mugneeficent  to  everything  from  the  en- 
graved gems  to  the  Hercules  torso. 

"Not  that  she  was  half  as  bad  as  the  other  kind^ 
he  added,  as  if  with  a  last  effor  at  optimism.  "The 
kind  who  discriminate  and  say:  'I'm  not  sure  if  it's 
Botticelli  or  Cellini  I  mean,  but  one  of  that  school,  at 
any  rate.'  And  the  worst  of  all  are  the  ones  who  know 
—up  to  a  certain  point:  have  the  schools,  and  the  dates 
and  the  jargon  pat,  and  yet  wouldn't  recognise  a 
Phidias  if  it  stood  where  they  hadn't  expected  it." 

He  had  all  my  sympathy,  poor  Neave;  yet  these 
were  trials  inseparable  from  the  collector's  lot,  and  not 
always  without  their  secret  compensations.  Certainly 
[  H4  ] 


THE   DAUNT   DIANA 

they  did  not  wholly  explain  my  friend's  state  of  mind; 
and  for  a  moment  I  wondered  if  it  were  due  to  some 
strange  disillusionment  as  to  the  quality  of  his  treasures. 
But  no!  the  Daunt  collection  was  almost  above  criti- 
cism; and  as  we  passed  from  one  object  to  another  I 
saw  there  was  no  mistaking  the  genuineness  of  Neave's 
pride  in  his  possessions.  The  ripe  sphere  of  beauty  was 
his,  and  he  had  found  no  flaw  in  it  as  yet.  .  . 

A  year  later  came  the  amazing  announcement  that  the 
Daunt  collection  was  for  sale.  At  first  we  all  supposed 
it  was  a  case  of  weeding  out  (though  how  old  Daunt 
would  have  raged  at  the  thought  of  anybody's  weeding 
his  collection!)  But  no — the  catalogue  corrected  that 
idea.  Every  stick  and  stone  was  to  go  under  the  hammer. 
The  news  ran  like  wildfire  from  Rome  to  Berlin,  from 
Paris  to  London  and  New  York.  Was  Neave  ruined, 
then  ?  Wrong  again — the  dealers  nosed  that  out  in  no 
time.  He  was  simply  selling  because  he  chose  to  sell; 
and  in  due  time  the  things  came  up  at  Christie's. 

But  you  may  be^sure  the  trade  had  found  an  answer 
to  the  riddj&r'and  the  answer  was  that,  on  close  in- 
spectioil,  Keave  had  found  the  things  less  good  than  he 
had  supposed.  It  was  a  preposterous  answer — but  then 
there  was  no  other.  Neave,  by  this  time,  was  pretty 
generally  acknowledged  to  have  the  sharpest  flair  of 
any  collector  in  Europe,  and  if  he  didn't  choose  to 
[115] 


THE   DAUNT  DIANA 

keep  the  Daunt  collection  it  could  be  only  because  he 
had  reason  to  think  he  could  do  better. 

In  a  flash  this  report  had  gone  the  rounds,  and  the 
buyers  were  on  their  guard.  I  had  run  over  to  London 
to  see  the  thing  through,  and  it  was  the  queerest  sale 
I  ever  was  at.  Some  of  the  things  held  their  own,  but 
a  lot — and  a  few  of  the  best  among  them — went  for 
half  their  value.  You  see,  they'd  been  locked  up  in 
old  Daunt's  house  for  nearly  twenty  years,  and  hardly 
shown  to  any  one,  so  that  the  whole  younger  genera- 
tion of  dealers  and  collectors  knew  of  them  only  by 
hearsay.  Then  you  know  the  effect  of  suggestion  in 
such  cases.  The  undefinable  sense  we  were  speaking 
of  is  a  ticklish  instrument,  easily  thrown  out  of  gear 
by  a  sudden  fall  of  temperature;  and  the  sharpest 
experts  grow  shy  and  self-distrustful  when  the  cold 
current  of  depreciation  touches  them.  The  sale  was  a 
slaughter— and  when  I  saw  the  Daunt  Diana  fall  at 
the  wink  of  a  little  third-rate  brocanteur  from  Vienna 
I  turned  sick  at  the  folly  of  my  kind. 

For  my  part,  I  had  never  believed  that  Neave  had 
sold  the  collection  because  he'd  "found  it  out";  and 
within  a  year  my  incredulity  was  justified.  As  soon  as 
the  things  were  put  in  circulation  they  were  known 
for  the  marvels  that  they  are.  There  was  hardly  a  poor 
bit  in  the  lot;  and  my  wonder  grew  at  Neave's  mad- 
ness. All  over  Europe,  dealers  began  to  fight  for 
[  H6] 


THE   DAUNT   DIANA 

the  spoils;  and  all  kinds  of  stuff  were  palmed  off  on 
the  unsuspecting  as  fragments  of  the  Daunt  col- 
lection ! 

Meantime,  what  was  Neave  doing?  For  a  long  time 
I  didn't  hear,  and  chance  kept  me  from  returning  to 
Rome.  But  one  day,  in  Paris,  I  ran  across  a  dealer  who 
had  captured  for  a  song  one  of  the  best  Florentine 
bronzes  in  the  Daunt  collection — a  marvellous  plaquette 
of  Donatello's.  I  asked  him  what  had  become  of  it, 
and  he  said  with  a  grin:  "I  sold  it  the  other  day," 
naming  a  price  that  staggered  me. 

"Ye  gods!  Who  paid  you  that  for  it?" 

His  grin  broadened,  and  he  answered:  "Neave." 

"Neave?  Humphrey  Neave?" 

"Didn't  you  know  he  was  buying  back  his  things?" 

"Nonsense!"^ 

"He  isf  though.  Not  in  his  own  name — but  he's 
doing  It." 

And  he  was,  do  you  know — and  at  prices  that 
would  have  made  a  sane  man  shudder!  A  few  weeks 
later  I  ran  across  his  tracks  in  London,  where  he  was 
trying  to  get  hold  of  a  Penicaud  enamel — another  of 
his  scattered  treasures.  Then  I  hunted  him  down  at 
his  hotel,  and  had  it  out  with  him. 

"Look  here,  Neave,  what  are  you  up  to?" 

He  wouldn't  tell  me  at  first:  stared  and  laughed  and 
denied.  But  I  took  him  off  to  dine,  and  after  dinner, 
[117] 


THE   DAUNT   DIANA 

while  we  smoked,  I  happened  to  mention  casually 
that  I  had  a  pull  over  the  man  who  had  the  Penicaud 
— and  at  that  he  broke  down  and  confessed. 

"Yes,  I'm  buying  them  back,  Finney — it's  true." 
He  laughed  nervously,  twitching  his  moustache.  And 
then  he  let  me  have  the  story. 

"You  know  how  I'd  hungered  and  thirsted  for  the 
real  thing — you  quoted  my  own  phrase  to  me  once, 
about  the  'ripe  sphere  of  beauty.'  So  when  I  got  my 
money,  and  Daunt  lost  his,  almost  at  the  same  moment, 
I  saw  the  hand  of  Providence  in  it.  I  knew  that,  even  if 
I'd  been  younger,  and  had  had  more  time,  I  could  never 
hope,  nowadays,  to  form  such  a  collection  as  that.  There 
was  the  ripe  sphere,within  reach;  and  I  took  it.  But  when 
I  got  it,  and  began  to  live  with  it,  I  found  out  my  mistake. 
The  transaction  was  a  mariage  de  convenance — there'd 
been  no  wooing,  no  winning.  Each  of  my  little  old  bits 
— the  rubbish  I  chucked  out  to  make  room  for  Daunt's 
glories — had  its  own  personal  history,  the  drama  of 
my  relation  to  it,  of  the  discovery,  the  struggle,  the 
capture,  the  first  divine  moment  of  possession.  There 
was  a  romantic  secret  between  us.  And  then  I  had 
absorbed  its  beauties  one  by  one,  they  had  become  a 
part  of  my  imagination,  they  held  me  by  a  hundred 
threads  of  far-reaching  association.  And  suddenly  I 
had  expected  to  create  this  kind  of  personal  tie 
between  myself  and  a  roomful  of  new  cold  alien 
[118] 


THE   DAUNT   DIANA 

presences — things  staring  at  me  vacantly  from  the 
depths  of  unknown  pasts!  Can  you  fancy  a  more  pre- 
posterous hope  ?  Why,  my  other  things,  my  own  things 
had  wooed  me  as  passionately  as  I  wooed  them:  there 
was  a  certain  little  Italian  bronze,  a  little  Venus, 
who  had  drawn  me,  drawn  me,  drawn  me,  imploring 
me  to  rescue  her  from  her  unspeakable  surroundings 
in  a  vulgar  bric-a-brac  shop  at  Biarritz,  where  she 
shrank  out  of  sight  among  sham  Sevres  and  Dutch 
silver,  as  one  has  seen  certain  women — rare,  shy,  ex- 
quisite— made  almost  invisible  by  the  vulgar  splen- 
dours surrounding  them.  Well!  that  little  Venus,  who 
was  just  a  specious  seventeenth  century  attempt  at  an 
'antique,'  but  who  had  penetrated  me  with  her  pleading 
grace,  touched  me  by  the  easily  guessed  story  of  her 
obscure  anonymous  origin,  was  more  to  me  imagina- 
tively— yes!  more — than  the  cold  bought  beauty  of  the 
Daunt  Diana.  .  ." 

"The  Daunt  Diana!"  I  broke  in.  "Hold  up,  Neave 
— the  Daunt  Diana  ?" 

He  smiled  contemptuously.  "A  professional  beauty, 
my  dear  fellow — expected  every  head  to  be  turned  when 
she  came  into  a  room." 

"Oh,  Neave,"  I  groaned. 

"Yes,  I  know.  You're  thinking  of  what  we  felt  that 
day  we  first  saw  her  in  London.  Many  a  poor  devil 
has  sold  his  soul  as  the  result  of  such  a  first  sight! 
[  119] 


THE   DAUNT   DIANA 

Well,  I  sold  her  instead.  Do  you  want  the  truth  about 
her?  Elle  etait  bete  a  pleurer" 

He  laughed,  and  turned  away  with  a  shrug  of  dis- 
enchantment. 

"And  so  you're  impenitent?"  I  insisted.  "And  yet 
you're  buying  some  of  the  things  back  ?  " 

Neave  laughed  again,  ironically.  "I  knew  you'd 
find  me  out  and  call  me  to  account.  Well,  yes:  I'm 
buying  back."  He  stood  before  me,  half  sheepish,  half 
defiant.  "I'm  buying  back  because  there's  nothing  else 
as  good  in  the  market.  And  because  I've  a  queer  feel- 
ing that,  this  time,  they'll  be  mine.  But  I'm  ruining 
myself  at  the  game!"  he  confessed. 

It  was  true:  Neave  was  ruining  himself.  And  he's 
gone  on  ruining  himself  ever  since,  till  now  the  job's 
pretty  nearly  done.  Bit  by  bit,  year  by  year,  he  has 
gathered  in  his  scattered  treasures,  at  higher  prices 
than  the  dealers  ever  dreamed  of  getting  for  them. 
There  are  fabulous  details  in  the  story  of  his  quest. 
Now  and  then  I  ran  across  him,  and  was  able  to  help 
him  recover  a  fragment;  and  it  was  touching  to  see 
his  delight  in  the  moment  of  reunion.  Finally,  about 
two  years  ago,  we  met  in  Paris,  and  he  told  me  he  had 
got  back  all  the  important  pieces  except  the  Diana. 

"The  Diana?  But  you  told  me  you  didn't  care  for 
her." 


THE   DAUNT   DIANA 

"Didn't  care?"  He  leaned  across  the  restaurant 
table  that  divided  us.  "Well,  no,  in  a  sense  I  didn't. 
I  wanted  her  to  want  me,  you  see;  and  she  didn't 
then!  Whereas  now  she's  crying  to  me  to  come  to  her. 
You  know  where  she  is  ?  "  he  broke  off. 

Yes,  I  knew:  in  the  centre  of  Mrs.  Willy  P.  Gold- 
mark's  yellow-and-gold  drawing-room,  under  a  thou- 
sand-candle-power chandelier,  with  reflectors  aimed  at 
her  from  every  point  of  the  compass.  I  had  seen  her, 
wincing  and  shivering  there  in  her  outraged  nudity, 
at  one  of  the  Goldmark  "crushes." 

"But  you  can't  get  her,  Neave,"  I  objected. 

"No,  I  can't  get  her,"  he  said. 

Well,  last  month  I  was  in  Rome,  for  the  first  time  in 
six  or  seven  years,  and  of  course  I  looked  about  for 
Neave.  The  Palazzo  Neave  was  let  to  some  rich  Rus- 
sians, and  the  new  porter  didn't  know  where  the  pro- 
prietor lived.  But  I  got  on  his  trail  easily  enough,  and  it 
led  me  to  a  strange  old  place  in  the  Trastevere,  a 
crevassed  black  palace  turned  tenement  house,  and 
fluttering  with  pauper  linen.  I  found  Neave  under  the 
leads,  in  two  or  three  cold  rooms  that  smelt  of  the 
cuisine  of  all  his  neighbours:  a  poor  shrunken  figure, 
smaller  and  shabbier  than  ever,  yet  more  alive  than 
when  we  had  made  the  tour  of  his  collection  in  the 
Palazzo  Neave. 


THE   DAUNT  DIANA 

The  collection  was  around  him  again,  not  displayed 
in  tall  cabinets  and  on  marble  tables,  but  huddled  on 
shelves,  perched  on  chairs,  crammed  in  corners,  put- 
ting the  gleam  of  bronze,  the  lustre  of  marble,  the 
opalescence  of  old  glass,  into  all  the  angles  of  his  dim 
rooms.  There  they  were,  the  presences  that  had  stared 
at  him  down  the  vistas  of  Daunt  House,  and  shone 
in  cold  transplanted  beauty  under  his  own  cornices: 
there  they  were,  gathered  about  him  in  humble  pro- 
miscuity, like  superb  wild  creatures  tamed  to  become 
the  familiars  of  some  harmless  wizard. 

As  we  went  from  bit  to  bit,  as  he  lifted  one  piece 
after  another,  and  held  it  to  the  light,  I  saw  in  his 
hands  the  same  tremor  that  I  had  noticed  when  he  first 
handled  the  same  objects  at  Daunt  House.  All  his  life 
was  in  his  finger-tips,  and  it  seemed  to  communicate 
life  to  the  things  he  touched.  But  you'll  think  me  in- 
fected by  his  mysticism  if  I  tell  you  they  gained  new 
beauty  while  he  held  them.  .  . 

We  went  the  rounds  slowly  and  reverently;  and  then, 
when  I  supposed  our  inspection  was  over,  and  was 
turning  to  take  my  leave,  he  opened  a  door  I  had  not 
noticed,  and  showed  me  into  a  room  beyond.  It  was 
a  mere  monastic  cell,  scarcely  large  enough  for  his  nar- 
row bed  and  the  chest  which  probably  held  his  few 
clothes;  but  there,  in  a  niche,  at  the  foot  of  the  bed — 
there  stood  the  Daunt  Diana. 
[  122] 


THE   DAUNT   DIANA 

I  gasped  at  the  sight  and  turned  to  him ;  and  he  looked 
back  at  me  without  speaking. 

"In  the  name  of  magic,  Neave,  how  did  you  do  it  ?" 

He  smiled  as  if  from  the  depths  of  some  secret  rap- 
ture. "Call  it  magic,  if  you  like;  but  I  ruined  myself 
doing  it,"  he  said. 

I  stared  at  him  in  silence,  breathless  with  the  mad- 
ness of  it;  and  suddenly,  red  to  the  ears,  he  flung 
out  his  confession.  "I  lied  to  you  that  day  in  Lon- 
don— the  day  I  said  I  didn't  care  for  her.  I  always 
cared — always  worshipped — always  wanted  her.  But 
she  wasn't  mine  then,  and  I  knew  it,  and  she  knew 
it  ...  and  now  at  last  we  understand  each  other." 
He  looked  at  me  shyly,  and  then  glanced  about  the 
bare  room.  "The  setting  isn't  worthy  of  her,  I 
know;  she  was  meant  for  glories  I  can't  give  her; 
but  beautiful  things,  my  dear  Finney,  like  beautiful 
spirits,  live  in  houses  not  made  with  hands.  .  ." 

His  face  shone  with  an  extraordinary  kind  of  light  as 
he  spoke;  and  I  saw  he'd  got  hold  of  the  secret  we're  all 
after.  No,  the  setting  isn't  worthy  of  her,  if  you  like. 
The  rooms  are  as  shabby  and  mean  as  those  wre  used 
to  see  him  in  years  ago  over  the  wine  shop.  I'm  not 
sure  they're  not  shabbier  and  meaner.  But  she  rules 
there  at  last,  she  shines  and  hovers  there  above  him, 
and  there  at  night,  I  doubt  not,  comes  down  from  her 
cloud  to  give  him  the  Latmian  kiss.  .  . 
[  123] 


THE    DEBT 


THE    DEBT 


YOU  remember — it's  not  so  long  ago — the  talk 
there  was  about  Dredge's  "Arrival  of  the  Fit- 
test"? The  talk  has  subsided,  but  the  book  of  course 
remains:  stands  up,  in  fact,  as  the  tallest  thing  of  its 
kind  since — well,  I'd  almost  said  since  "The  Origin 
of  Species." 

I'm  not  wrong,  at  any  rate,  in  calling  it  the  most 
important  contribution  yet  made  to  the  development 
of  the  Darwinian  theory,  or  rather  to  the  solution  of 
the  awkward  problem  about  which  that  theory  has  had 
to  make  such  a  circuit.  Dredge's  hypothesis  will  be 
contested,  may  one  day  be  disproved;  but  at  least  it 
has  swept  out  of  the  way  all  previous  conjectures, 
including  of  course  Lanf ear's  great  attempt;  and  for 
our  generation  of  scientific  investigators  it  will  serve  as 
the  first  safe  bridge  across  a  murderous  black  whirlpool. 

It's  all  very  interesting — there  are  few  things  more 

stirring  to  the  imagination  than  that  projection  of  the 

new  hypothesis,  light  as  a  cobweb  and  strong  as  steel, 

across  the  intellectual  fcbyss;  but,  for  an  idle  observer 

[  127  ] 


THE   DEBT 

of  human  motives,  the  other,  the  personal,  side  of 
Dredge's  case  is  even  more  interesting  and  arresting. 

Personal  side?  You  didn't  know  there  was  one? 
Pictured  him  simply  as  a  thinking  machine,  a  highly 
specialised  instrument  of  precision,  the  result  of  a 
long  series  of  "adaptations,"  as  his  own  jargon  would 
put  it?  Well,  I  don't  wonder— if  you've  met  him.  He 
does  give  the  impression  of  being  something  out  of 
his  own  laboratory:  a  delicate  instrument  that  reveals 
wonders  to  the  initiated,  but  is  useless  in  an  ordinary 
hand. 

In  his  youth  it  was  just  the  other  way.  I  knew  him 
twenty  years  ago,  as  an  awkward  lad  whom  young 
Archie  Lanfear  had  picked  up  at  college,  and  brought 
home  for  a  visit.  I  happened  to  be  staying  at  the  Lan- 
f ears'  when  the  boys  arrived,  and  I  shall  never  forget 
Dredge's  first  appearance  on  the  scene.  You  know  the 
Lanfears  always  lived  very  simply.  That  summer  they 
had  gone  to  Buzzard's  Bay,  in  order  that  Professor 
Lanfear  should  be  near  the  Biological  Station  at  Wood's 
Holl,  and  they  were  picnicking  in  a  kind  of  sketchy 
bungalow  without  any  attempt  at  luxury.  But  Galen 
Dredge  couldn't  have  been  more  awe-struck  if  he'd 
been  suddenly  plunged  into  a  Fifth  Avenue  ball-room. 
He  nearly  knocked  his  head  against  the  low  doorway, 
and  in  dodging  this  peril  trod  heavily  on  Mabel  Lan- 
fear's  foot,  and  became  hopelessly  entangled  in  her 
[  128  ] 


THE   DEBT 

mother's  draperies — though  how  he  managed  it  I  never 
knew,  for  Mrs.  Lanf ear's  dowdy  muslins  ran  to  no  excess 
of  train. 

When  the  Professor  himself  came  in  it  was  ten  times 
worse,  and  I  saw  then  that  Dredge's  emotion  was  a 
tribute  to  the  great  man's  presence.  That  made  the  boy 
interesting,  and  I  began  to  watch.  Archie,  always  en- 
thusiastic but  vague,  had  said :  "  Oh,  he's  a  tremendous 
chap — you'll  see —  "  but  I  hadn't  expected  to  see  quite 
so  early.  Lanfear's  vision,  of  course,  was  sharper  than 
mine;  and  the  next  morning  he  had  carried  Dredge  off 
to  the  Biological  Station.  That  was  the  way  it  began. 

Dredge  is  the  son  of  a  Baptist  minister.  He  comes 
from  East  Lethe,  New  York  State,  and  was  working 
his  way  through  college — waiting  at  White  Mountain 
hotels  in  summer — when  Archie  Lanfear  ran  across 
him.  There  were  eight  children  in  the  family,  and  the 
mother  was  an  invalid.  Dredge  never  had  a  penny  from 
his  father  after  he  was  fourteen;  but  his  mother  wanted 
him  to  be  a  scholar,  and  "kept  at  him,"  as  he  put  it, 
in  the  hope  of  his  going  back  to  "teach  school"  at 
East  Lethe.  He  developed  slowly,  as  the  scientific 
mind  generally  does,  and  was  still  adrift  about  himself 
and  his  tendencies  when  Archie  took  him  down  to 
Buzzard's  Bay.  But  he  had  read  Lanfear's  "Utility 
and  Variation,"  and  had  always  been  a  patient  and 
curious  observer  of  nature.  And  his  first  meeting  with 
*[  129  ] 


THE   DEBT 

Lanfear  explained  him  to  himself.  It  didn't,  however, 
enable  him  to  explain  himself  to  others,  and  for  a  long 
time  he  remained,  to  all  but  Lanfear,  an  object  of  in- 
credulity and  conjecture. 

"Why  my  husband  wants  him  about "  poor  Mrs. 

Lanfear,  the  kindest  of  women,  privately  lamented  to 
her  friends;  for  Dredge,  at  that  time — they  kept  him 
all  summer  at  the  bungalow — had  one  of  the  most 
encumbering  personalities  you  can  imagine.  He  was 
as  inexpressive  as  he  is  to-day,  and  yet  oddly  obtrusive : 
one  of  those  uncomfortable  presences  whose  silence  is 
an  interruption. 

The  poor  Lanfears  almost  died  of  him  that  summer, 
and  the  pity  of  it  was  that  he  never  suspected  it,  but 
continued  to  lavish  on  them  a  floundering  devotion 
as  inconvenient  as  the  endearments  of  a  dripping  dog. 
He  was  full  of  all  sorts  of  raw  enthusiasms,  which  he 
forced  on  any  one  who  would  listen  when  his  first  shy- 
ness had  worn  off.  You  can't  see  him  spouting  senti- 
mental poetry,  can  you  ?  Yet  I've  known  him  to  petrify 
a  whole  group  of  Mrs.  Lanfear's  callers  by  suddenly 
discharging  on  them,  in  the  strident  drawl  of  his  state, 
"Barbara  Frietchie"  or  "The  Queen  of  the  May." 
His  taste  in  literature  was  uniformly  bad,  but  very 
definite,  and  far  more  dogmatic  than  his  views  on 
biological  questions.  In  his  scientific  judgments  he 
showed,  even  then,  a  temperance  remarkable  in  one 
[  130  ] 


THE   DEBT 

so  young;  but  in  literature  he  was  a  furious  propa- 
gandist, aggressive,  disputatious,  and  extremely  sensi- 
tive to  adverse  opinion. 

Lanfear,  of  course,  had  been  struck  from  the  first 
by  his  gift  of  observation,  and  by  the  fact  that  his 
eagerness  to  learn  was  offset  by  his  reluctance  to  con- 
clude. I  remember  Lanfear's  telling  me  that  he  had 
never  known  a  lad  of  Dredge's  age  who  gave  such 
promise  of  uniting  an  aptitude  for  general  ideas  with 
the  plodding  patience  of  the  observer.  Of  course  when 
Lanfear  talked  like  that  of  a  young  biologist  his  fate 
was  sealed.  There  could  be  no  question  of  Dredge's 
going  back  to  "teach  school"  at  East  Lethe.  He  must 
take  a  course  in  biology  at  Columbia,  spend  his  vaca- 
tions at  the  Wood's  Holl  laboratory,  and  then,  if  pos- 
sible, go  to  Germany  for  a  year  or  two. 

All  this  meant  his  virtual  adoption  by  the  Lanfears. 
Most  of  Lanfear's  fortune  went  in  helping  young  stu- 
dents to  a  start,  and  he  devoted  a  liberal  subsidy  to 
Dredge. 

"Dredge  will  be  my  biggest  dividend — you'll  see!" 
he  used  to  say,  in  the  chrysalis  days  when  poor  Galen 
was  known  to  the  world  of  science  only  as  a  slouch- 
ing presence  in  Mrs.  Lanfear's  drawing-room.  And 
Dredge,  it  must  be  said,  took  his  obligations  simply, 
with  the  dignity,  and  quiet  consciousness  of  his  own 
worth,  which  in  such  cases  saves  the  beneficiary  from 
[131  ] 


THE   DEBT 

abjectness.  He  seemed  to  trust  himself  as  fully  as 
Lanfear  trusted  him. 

The  comic  part  of  it  was  that  his  only  idea  of  making 
what  is  known  as  "a  return"  was  to  devote  himself  to 
the  Professor's  family.  When  I  hear  pretty  women 
lamenting  that  they  can't  coax  Professor  Dredge  out 
of  his  laboratory  I  remember  Mabel  Lanfear's  cry  to 
me:  "If  Galen  would  only  keep  away!"  When  Mabel 
fell  on  the  ice  and  broke  her  leg,  Galen  walked  seven 
miles  in  a  blizzard  to  get  a  surgeon;  but  if  he  did  her 
this  service  one  day  in  the  year,  he  bored  her  by  being 
in  the  way  for  the  other  three  hundred  and  sixty-four. 
One  would  have  imagined  at  that  time  that  he  thought 
his  perpetual  presence  the  greatest  gift  he  could  be- 
stow; for,  except  on  the  occasion  of  his  fetching  the 
surgeon,  I  don't  remember  his  taking  any  other  way 
of  expressing  his  gratitude. 

In  love  with  Mabel  ?  Not  a  bit !  But  the  queer  thing 
was  that  he  did  have  a  passion  in  those  days — a  blind 
hopeless  passion  for  Mrs.  Lanfear!  Yes:  I  know  what 
I'm  saying.  I  mean  Mrs.  Lanfear,  the  Professor's  wife, 
poor  Mrs.  Lanfear,  with  her  tight  hair  and  her  loose 
shape,  her  blameless  brow  and  earnest  eye-glasses, 
and  her  perpetual  air  of  mild  misapprehension.  I  can 
see  Dredge  cowering,  long  and  many-jointed,  in  a 
small  drawing-room  chair,  one  square-toed  shoe  coiled 
round  an  [exposed  ankle,  his  knees  clasped  in  a  knot 
[  132  ] 


THE   DEBT 

of  knuckles,  and  his  spectacles  perpetually  seeking 
Mrs.  Lanf ear's  eye-glasses.  I  never  knew  if  the  poor 
lady  was  aware  of  the  sentiment  she  inspired,  but  her 
children  observed  it,  and  it  provoked  them  to  irrev- 
erent mirth.  Galen  was  the  predestined  butt  of  Mabel 
and  Archie;  and  secure  in  their  mother's  obtuseness, 
and  in  her  worshipper's  timidity,  they  allowed  them- 
selves a  latitude  of  banter  that  sometimes  made  their 
audience  shiver.  Dredge  meanwhile  was  going  on  ob- 
stinately with  his  work.  Now  and  then  he  had  fits  of 
idleness,  when  he  lapsed  into  a  state  of  sulky  inertia 
from  which  even  Lanf  ear's  remonstrances  could  not 
rouse  him.  Once,  just  before  an  examination,  he  sud- 
denly went  off  to  the  Maine  woods  for  two  weeks, 
came  back,  and  failed  to  pass.  I  don't  know  if  his 
benefactor  ever  lost  hope;  but  at  times  his  confidence 
must  have  been  sorely  strained.  The  queer  part  of  it 
was  that  when  Dredge  emerged  from  these  eclipses  he 
seemed  keener  and  more  active  than  ever.  His  slowly 
growing  intelligence  probably  needed  its  periodical 
pauses  of  assimilation;  and  Lanfear  was  wonderfully 
patient. 

At  last  Dredge  finished  his  course  and  went  to  Ger- 
many; and  when  he  came  back  he  was  a  new  man — 
was,  in  fact,  the  Dredge  we  all  know.  He  seemed  to 
have  shed  his  encumbering  personality,  and  have  come 
to  life  as  a  disembodied  intelligence.  His  fidelity  to  the 
[  133  ] 


THE   DEBT 

Laniears  was  unchanged ;  but  he  showed  it  negatively, 
by  his  discretions  and  abstentions.  I  have  an  idea  that 
Mabel  was  less  disposed  to  laugh  at  him,  might  even 
have  been  induced  to  softer  sentiments;  but  I  doubt  if 
Dredge  even  noticed  the  change.  As  for  his  ex-god- 
dess, he  seemed  to  regard  her  as  a  motherly  household 
divinity,  the  guardian  genius  of  the  darning  needle; 
but  on  Professor  Lanfear  he  looked  with  a  deepen- 
ing reverence.  If  the  rest  of  the  family  had  diminished 
in  his  eyes,  its  head  had  grown  even  greater. 


II 

FROM  that  day  Dredge's  progress  continued  steadily. 
If  not  always  perceptible  to  the  untrained  eye,  in  Lan- 
fear's  sight  it  never  flagged,  and  the  great  man  began 
to  associate  Dredge  with  his  work,  and  to  lean  on  him 
more  and  more.  Lanfear's  health  was  already  failing, 
and  in  my  confidential  talks  with  him  I  saw  how  he 
counted  on  Dredge  to  continue  and  develop  his  teach- 
ings. If  he  did  not  describe  the  young  man  as  his 
predestined  Huxley,  it  was  because  any  such  compari- 
son between  himself  and  his  great  predecessors  would 
have  been  distasteful  to  him;  but  he  evidently  felt  that 
it  would  be  Dredge's  part  to  reveal  him  to  posterity.  And 
the  young  man  seemed  at  that  time  to  take  the  same 
view.  When  he  was  not  busy  about  Lanfear's  work  he 
[  134  ] 


THE   DEBT 

was  recording  their  conversations  with  the  diligence  of 
a  biographer  and  the  accuracy  of  a  naturalist.  Any 
attempt  to  question  Lanfear's  theories  or  to  minimise 
his  achievement,  roused  in  his  disciple  the  only  flashes 
of  wrath  I  have  ever  seen  a  scientific  discussion  pro- 
voke in  him.  In  defending  his  master  he  became 
almost  as  intemperate  as  in  the  early  period  of  his 
literary  passions. 

Such  filial  devotion  must  have  been  all  the  more 
precious  to  Lanfear  because,  about  that  time,  it  be- 
came evident  that  Archie  would  never  carry  on  his 
father's  work.  He  had  begun  brilliantly,  you  may  re- 
member, by  a  little  paper  on  Limulus  Polyphemus 
that  attracted  a  good  deal  of  notice  when  it  appeared ; 
but  gradually  his  zoological  ardour  yielded  to  a  passion 
for  the  violin,  which  was  followed  by  a  plunge  into 
physics.  At  present,  after  a  side-glance  at  the  drama, 
I  understand  he's  devoting  what  is  left  of  his  father's 
money  to  archaeological  explorations  in  Asia  Minor. 

"Archie's  got  a  delightful  little  mind,"  Lanfear  used 
to  say  to  me,  rather  wistfully,  "but  it's  just  a  highly 
polished  surface  held  up  to  the  show  as  it  passes. 
Dredge's  mind  takes  in  only  a  bit  at  a  time,  but  the 
bit  stays,  and  other  bits  are  joined  to  it,  in  a  hard 
mosaic  of  fact,  of  which  imagination  weaves  the  pat- 
tern. I  saw  just  how  it  would  be  years  ago,  when  my 
boy  used  to  take  my  meaning  in  a  flash,  and  answer  me 
[  135  ] 


THE   DEBT 

with  clever  objections,  while  Galen  disappeared  into 
one  of  his  fathomless  silences,  and  then  came  to  the 
surface  like  a  dripping  retriever,  a  long  way  beyond 
Archie's  objections,  and  with  an  answer  to  them  in 
his  mouth." 

It  was  about  this  time  that  the  crowning  satisfaction 
of  Lanfear's  career  came  to  him:  I  mean,  of  course, 
John  Weyman's  gift  to  Columbia  of  the  Lanfear  La- 
boratory, and  the  founding,  in  connection  with  it,  of  a 
chair  of  Experimental  Evolution.  Weyman  had  always 
taken  an  interest  in  Lanfear's  work,  but  no  one  had 
supposed  that  his  interest  would  express  itself  so  mag- 
nificently. The  honour  came  to  Lanfear  at  a  time 
when  he  was  fighting  an  accumulation  of  troubles: 
failing  health,  the  money  difficulties  resulting  from  his 
irrepressible  generosity,  his  disappointment  about  Ar- 
chie's career,  and  perhaps  also  the  persistent  attacks 
of  the  new  school  of  German  zoologists. 

"If  I  hadn't  Galen  I  should  feel  the  game  Was  up," 
he  said  to  me  once,  in  a  fit  of  half-real,  half-mocking 
despondency.  "But  he'll  do  what  I  haven't  time  to  do 
myself,  and  what  my  boy  can't  do  for  me." 

That  meant  that  he  would  answer  the  critics,  and 
triumphantly  reaffirm  Lanfear's  theory,  which  had 
been  rudely  shaken,  but  not  dislodged. 

"A  scientific  hypothesis  lasts  till  there's  something 
else  to  put  in  its  place.  People  who  want  to  get  across 
[  136] 


THE   DEBT 

a  river  will  use  the  old  bridge  till  the  new  one's  built. 
And  I  don't  see  any  one  who's  particularly  anxious, 
in  this  case,  to  take  a  contract  for  the  new  one,"  Lan- 
fear  ended;  and  I  remember  answering  with  a  laugh: 
"Not  while  Horatius  Dredge  holds  the  other." 

It  was  generally  known  that  Lanfear  had  not  long 
to  live,  and  the  Laboratory  was  hardly  opened  before 
the  question  of  his  successor  in  the  chair  of  Experi- 
mental Evolution  began  to  be  a  matter  of  public  dis- 
cussion. It  was  conceded  that  whoever  followed  him 
ought  to  be  a  man  of  achieved  reputation,  some  one 
carrying,  as  the  French  say,  a  considerable  "baggage." 
At  the  same  time,  even  Lanfear's  critics  felt  that  he 
should  be  succeeded  by  a  man  who  held  his  views  and 
would  continue  his  teaching.  This  was  not  in  itself  a 
difficulty,  for  German  criticism  had  so  far  been  mainly 
negative,  and  there  were  plenty  of  good  men  who, 
while  they  questioned  the  permanent  validity  of  Lan- 
fear's conclusions,  were  yet  ready  to  accept  them  for 
their  provisional  usefulness.  And  then  there  was  the 
added  inducement  of  the  Laboratory!  The  Columbia 
Professor  of  Experimental  Evolution  has  at  his  dis- 
posal the  most  complete  instrument  of  biological  re- 
search that  modern  ingenuity  has  yet  produced;  and 
it's  not  only  in  theology  or  politics  que  Paris  vaut 
bien  une  messe!  There  was  no  trouble  about  finding 
a  candidate;  but  the  whole  thing  turned  on  Lanfear's 

137 


THE   DEBT 

decision,  since  it  was  tacitly  understood  that,  by  Wey- 
man's  wish,  he  was  to  select  his  successor.  And  what 
a  cry  there  was  when  he  selected  Galen  Dredge! 

Not  in  the  scientific  world,  though.  The  specialists 
were  beginning  to  know  about  Dredge.  His  remarkable 
paper  on  Sexual  Dimorphism  had  been  translated  into 
several  languages,  and  a  furious  polemic  had  broken 
out  over  it.  When  a  young  fellow  can  get  the  big  men 
fighting  over  him  his  future  is  pretty  well  assured. 
But  Dredge  was  only  thirty-four,  and  some  people 
seemed  to  feel  that  there  was  a  kind  of  deflected  nepo- 
tism in  Lanfear's  choice. 

"If  he  could  choose  Dredge  he  might  as  well  have 
chosen  his  own  son,"  I've  heard  it  said;  and  the  irony 
was  that  Archie — will  you  believe  it  ? — actually  thought 
so  himself!  But  Lanfear  had  Weyman  behind  him, 
and  when  the  end  came  the  Faculty  at  once  ap- 
pointed Galen  Dredge  to  the  chair  of  Experimental 
Evolution. 

For  the  first  two  years  things  went  quietly,  along  ac- 
customed lines.  Dredge  simply  continued  the  course 
which  Lanfear's  death  had  interrupted.  He  lectured 
well  even  then,  with  a  persuasive  simplicity  surprising 
in  the  inarticulate  creature  one  knew  him  for.  But 
haven't  you  noticed  that  certain  personalities  reveal 
themselves  only  in  the  more  impersonal  relations  of 
life  ?  It's  as  if  they  woke  only  to  collective  contacts, 
[  138  ] 


THE  DEBT 

and  the  single  consciousness  were  an  unmeaning  frag- 
ment to  them. 

If  there  was  anything  to  criticise  in  that  first  part 
of  the  course,  it  was  the  avoidance  of  general  ideas,  of 
those  brilliant  rockets  of  conjecture  that  Lanfear's  stu- 
dents were  used  to  seeing  him  fling  across  the  darkness. 
I  remember  once  saying  this  to  Archie,  who,  having 
forgotten  his  absurd  disappointment,  had  returned  to 
his  old  allegiance  to  Dredge. 

"Oh,  that's  Galen  all  over.  He  doesn't  want  to 
jump  into  the  ring  till  he  has  a  big  swishing  knock- 
down argument  in  his  fist.  He'll  wait  twenty  years  if 
he  has  to.  That's  his  strength:  he's  never  afraid  to 
wait." 

I  thought  this  shrewd  of  Archie,  as  well  as  generous; 
and  I  saw  the  wisdom  of  Dredge's  course.  As  Lanfear 
himself  had  said,  his  theory  was  safe  enough  till  some- 
body found  a  more  attractive  one;  and  before  that  day 
Dredge  would  probably  have  accumulated  sufficient 
proof  to  crystallise  the  fluid  hypothesis. 


Ill 

THE  third  winter  I  was  off  collecting  in  Central  Amer- 
ica, and  didn't  get  back  till  Dredge's  course  had  been 
going  for  a  couple  of  months.  The  very  day  I  turned 
up  in  town  Archie  Lanfear  descended  on  me  with  a 
[  139  ] 


THE   DEBT 

summons  from  his  mother.  I  was  wanted  at  once  at  a 
family  council. 

I  found  the  Lanfear  ladies  in  a  state  of  explosive 
distress,  which  Archie's  own  indignation  hardly  made 
more  intelligible.  But  gradually  I  put  together  their 
fragmentary  charges,  and  learned  that  Dredge's  lec- 
tures were  turning  into  an  organised  assault  on  his 
master's  doctrine. 

"It  amounts  to  just  this,"  Archie  said,  controlling 
his  women  with  the  masterful  gesture  of  the  weak  man. 
"Galen  has  simply  turned  round  and  betrayed  my 
father." 

"Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us,"  Mabel 
sobbed  in  parenthesis,  while  Mrs.  Lanfear  tearfully 
cited  Hamlet. 

Archie  silenced  them  again.  "The  ugly  part  of  it  is 
that  he  must  have  had  this  up  his  sleeve  for  years. 
He  must  have  known  when  he  was  asked  to  succeed 
my  father  what  use  he  meant  to  make  of  his  oppor- 
tunity. What  he's  doing  isn't  the  result  of  a  hasty 
conclusion:  it  means  years  of  work  and  prepara- 
tion." 

Archie  broke  off  to  explain  himself.  He  had  returned 
from  Europe  the  week  before,  and  had  learned  on 
arriving  that  Dredge's  lectures  were  stirring  the  world 
of  science  as  nothing  had  stirred  it  since  Lanfear's 
"Utility  and  Variation."  And  the  incredible  affront 
[  140] 


THE   DEBT 

was  that  they  owed  their  success  to  the  fact  of  being 
an  attempted  refutation  of  Lanfear's  great  work. 

I  own  that  I  was  staggered :  the  case  looked  ugly,  as 
Archie  said.  And  there  was  a  veil  of  reticence,  of  secrecy, 
about  Dredge,  that  always  kept  his  conduct  in  a  half- 
light  of  uncertainty.  Of  some  men  one  would  have  said 
off-hand:  "It's  impossible!"  But  one  couldn't  affirm 
it  of  him. 

Archie  hadn't  seen  him  as  yet;  and  Mrs.  Lanfear 
had  sent  for  me  because  she  wished  me  to  be  present 
at  the  interview  between  the  two  men.  The  Lanfear 
ladies  had  a  touching  belief  in  Archie's  violence:  they 
thought  him  as  terrible  as  a  natural  force.  Mj  own  idea 
was  that  if  there  were  any  broken  bones  they  wouldn't 
be  Dredge's;  but  I  was  too  curious  as  to  the  outcome 
not  to  be  glad  to  offer  my  services  as  moderator. 

First,  however,  I  wanted  to  hear  one  of  the  lectures; 
and  I  went  the  next  afternoon.  The  hall  was  jammed, 
and  I  saw,  as  soon  as  Dredge  appeared,  what  increased 
security  and  ease  the  sympathy  of  his  audience  had 
given  him.  He  had  been  clear  the  year  before,  now  he 
was  also  eloquent.  The  lecture  was  a  remarkable  effort: 
you'll  find  the  gist  of  it  in  Chapter  VII  of  "The  Ar- 
rival of  the  Fittest."  Archie  sat  at  my  side  in  a  white 
rage;  he  was  too  intelligent  not  to  measure  the  extent 
of  the  disaster.  And  I  was  almost  as  indignant  as  he 
when  we  went  to  see  Dredge  the  next  day. 


THE   DEBT 

I  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  latter  suspected  nothing; 
and  it  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  began  by 
questioning  me  about  my  finds,  and  only  afterward 
turned  to  reproach  Archie  for  having  been  back  a  week 
without  letting  him  know. 

"You  know  I'm  up  to  my  neck  in  this  job.  Why  in 
the  world  didn't  you  hunt  me  up  before  this  ?  " 

The  question  was  exasperating,  and  I  could  under- 
stand Archie's  stammer  of  wrath. 

"  Hunt  you  up  ?  Hunt  you  up  ?  What  the  deuce  are 
you  made  of,  to  ask  me  such  a  question  instead  of 
wondering  why  I'm  here  now?" 

Dredge  bent  his  slow  calm  scrutiny  on  his  friend's 
agitated  face;  then  he  turned  to  me. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  said  simply. 

"The  matter?"  shrieked  Archie,  his  fist  hovering 
excitedly  above  the  desk  by  which  he  stood;  but 
Dredge,  with  unwonted  quickness,  caught  the  fist  as 
it  descended. 

"Careful— I've  got  a  Kallima  in  that  jar  there." 
He  pushed  a  chair  forward,  and  added  quietly:  "Sit 
down  " 

Archie,  ignoring  the  gesture,  towered  pale  and  aveng- 
ing in  his  place;  and  Dredge,  after  a  moment,  took  the 
chair  himself. 

"The  matter?"  Archie  reiterated.  "Are  you  so  lost 
to  all  sense  of  decency  and  honour  that  you  can  put 
[  142  ] 


THE   DEBT 

that  question  in  good  faith?  Don't  you  really  know 
what's  the  matter?" 

Dredge  smiled  slowly.  "There  are  so  few  things 
one  really  knows." 

"Oh,  damn  your  scientific  hair-splitting!  Don't  you 
know  you're  insulting  my  father's  memory?" 

Dredge  thoughtfully  turned  his  spectacles  from  one 
of  us  to  the  other. 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?  Then  you'd  better  sit  down.  If 
you  don't  see  at  once  it'll  take  some  time  to  make  you." 

Archie  burst  into  an  ironic  laugh. 

"I  rather  think  it  will!"  he  retorted. 

"Sit  down,  Archie,"  I  said,  setting  the  example; 
and  he  obeyed,  with  a  gesture  that  made  his  consent 
a  protest. 

Dredge  seemed  to  notice  nothing  beyond  the  fact 
that  his  visitors  were  seated.  He  reached  for  his  pipe, 
and  filled  it  with  the  care  which  the  habit  of  delicate 
manipulations  gave  to  all  the  motions  of  his  long 
knotty  hands. 

"It's  about  the  lectures  ?"  he  said. 

Archie's  answer  was  a  deep  scornful  breath. 

"You've  only  been  back  a  week,  so  you've  only 
heard  one,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"It  was  not  necessary  to  hear  even  that  one.  You 
must  know  the  talk  they're  making.  If  notoriety  is 
what  you're  after — 

[  143  ] 


THE   DEBT 

"Well,  I'm  not  sorry  to  make  a  noise,"  said  Dredge, 
putting  a  match  to  his  pipe. 

Archie  bounded  in  his  chair.  "There's  no  easier  way 
of  doing  it  than  to  attack  a  man  who  can't  answer  you ! " 

Dredge  raised  a  sobering  hand.  "Hold  on.  Perhaps 
you  and  I  don't  mean  the  same  thing.  Tell  me  first 
what's  in  your  mind." 

The  question  steadied  Archie,  who  turned  on  Dredge 
a  countenance  really  eloquent  with  filial  indignation. 

"It's  an  odd  question  for  you  to  ask;  it  makes  me 
wonder  what's  in  yours.  Not  much  thought  of  my 
father,  at  any  rate,  or  you  couldn't  stand  in  his  place 
and  use  the  chance  he's  given  you  to  push  yourself  at 
his  expense." 

Dredge  received  this  in  silence,  puffing  slowly  at  his 
pipe. 

"Is  that  the  way  it  strikes  you ?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"God!  It's  the  way  it  would  strike  most  men." 

He  turned  to  me.  "You  too?" 

"I  can  see  how  Archie  feels,"  I  said. 

"That  I  am  attacking  his  father's  memory  to  glorify 
myself?" 

"Well,  not  precisely:  I  think  what  he  really  feels  is 
that,  if  your  convictions  didn't  permit  you  to  continue 
his  father's  teaching,  you  might  perhaps  have  done 
better  to  sever  your  connection  with  the  Lanfear 
lectureship." 

[  144  ] 


THE   DEBT 

"Then  you  and  he  regard  the  Lanfear  lectureship 
as  having  been  founded  to  perpetuate  a  dogma,  not 
to  try  and  get  at  the  truth  ?  " 

"Certainly  not,"  Archie  broke  in.  "But  there's  a 
question  of  taste,  of  delicacy,  involved  in  the  case  that 
can't  be  decided  on  abstract  principles.  We  know  as 
well  as  you  that  my  father  meant  the  laboratory  and 
the  lectureship  to  serve  the  ends  of  science,  at  whatever 
cost  to  his  own  special  convictions;  what  we  feel — 
and  you  don't  seem  to — is  that  you're  the  last  man  to 
put  them  to  that  particular  use;  and  I  don't  want  to 
remind  you  why." 

A  slight  redness  rose  through  Dredge's  sallow  skin. 
"You  needn't,"  he  said.  "It's  because  he  pulled  me 
out  of  my  hole,  woke  me  up,  made  me,  shoved  me  off 
from  the  shore.  Because  he  saved  me  ten  or  twenty 
years  of  muddled  effort,  and  put  me  where  I  am  at  an 
age  when  my  best  working  years  are  still  ahead  of  me. 
Every  one  knows  that's  what  your  father  did  for  me, 
but  I'm  the  only  person  who  knows  the  time  and 
trouble  it  took." 

It  was  well  said,  and  I  glanced  quickly  at  Archie, 
who  was  never  closed  to  generous  emotions. 

"Well,  then ?"  he  said,  flushing  also. 

"Well,  then,"  Dredge  continued,  his  voice  deepening 
and  losing  its  nasal  edge,  "I  had  to  pay  him  back, 
didn't  I?" 

[  145  ] 


THE   DEBT 

The  sudden  drop  flung  Archie  back  on  his  prepared 
attitude  of  irony.  "It  would  be  the  natural  inference 
— with  most  men." 

"Just  so.  And  I'm  not  so  very  different.  I  knew  your 
father  wanted  a  successor — some  one  who'd  try  and 
tie  up  the  loose  ends.  And  I  took  the  lectureship  with 
that  object." 

"And  you're  using  it  to  tear  the  whole  fabric  to 
pieces!" 

Dredge  paused  to  re-light  his  pipe.  "  Looks  that  way," 
he  conceded.  "This  year  anyhow." 

"  This  year ?  "  Archie  echoed. 

"Yes.  When  I  took  up  the  job  I  saw  it  just  as  your 
father  left  it.  Or  rather,  I  didn't  see  any  other  way  of 
going  on  with  it.  The  change  came  gradually,  as  I 
worked." 

"Gradually?  So  that  you  had  time  to  look  round 
you,  to  know  where  you  were,  to  see  that  you  were 
fatally  committed  to  undoing  the  work  he  had  done  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes— I  had  time,"  Dredge  conceded. 

"And  yet  you  kept  the  chair  and  went  on  with  the 
course  ?  " 

Dredge  refilled  his  pipe,  and  then  turned  in  his 
seat  so  that  he  looked  squarely  at  Archie. 

"What  would  your  father  have  done  in  my  place?" 
he  asked. 

"In  your  place ?" 

[  146  ] 


THE   DEBT 

"Yes:  supposing  he'd  found  out  the  things  I've 
found  out  in  the  last  year  or  two.  You'll  see  what  they 
are,  and  how  much  they  count,  if  you'll  run  over  the 
report  of  the  lectures.  If  your  father'd  been  alive  he 
might  have  come  across  the  same  facts  just  as 
easily." 

There  was  a  silence  which  Archie  at  last  broke  by 
saying:  "But  he  didn't,  and  you  did.  There's  the  dif- 
ference." 

"The  difference?  What  difference?  Would  your 
father  have  suppressed  the  facts  if  he'd  found  them? 
It's  you  who  insult  his  memory  by  implying  it!  And  if 
I'd  brought  them  to  him,  would  he  have  used  his  hold 
over  me  to  get  me  to  suppress  them  ?  " 

"Certainly  not.  But  can't  you  see  it's  his  death  that 
makes  the  difference  ?  He's  not  here  to  defend  his  case." 

Dredge  laughed,  but  not  unkindly.  "My  dear  Archie, 
your  father  wasn't  one  of  the  kind  who  bother  to  de- 
fend their  case.  Men  like  him  are  the  masters,  not  the 
servants,  of  their  theories.  They  respect  an  idea  only 
as  long  as  it's  of  use  to  them;  when  its  usefulness  ends 
they  chuck  it  out.  And  that's  what  your  father  would 
have  done." 

Archie  reddened.  "Don't  you  assume  a  good  deal 
in  taking  it  for  granted  that  he  would  have  had  to  do 
so  in  this  particular  case?" 

Dredge  reflected.  "Yes:  I  was  going  too  far.  Each 
[  147] 


THE   DEBT 

of  us  can  only  answer  for  himself.  But  to  my  mind 
your  father's  theory  is  refuted." 

"  And  you  don't  hesitate  to  be  the  man  to  do  it  ?  " 

"Should  I  have  been  of  any  use  if  I  had  ?  And  did 
your  father  ever  ask  anything  of  me  but  to  be  of  as 
much  use  as  I  could?" 

It  was  Archie's  turn  to  reflect.  "No.  That  was  what 
he  always  wanted,  of  course." 

"That's  the  way  I've  always  felt.  The  first  day  he 
took  me  away  from  East  Lethe  I  knew  the  debt  I  was 
piling  up  against  him,  and  I  never  had  any  doubt  as 
to  how  I'd  pay  it,  or  how  he'd  want  it  paid.  He  didn't 
pick  me  out  and  train  me  for  any  object  but  to  carry 
on  the  light.  Do  you  suppose  he'd  have  wanted  me  to 
snuff  it  out  because  it  happened  to  light  up  a  fact  he 
didn't  fancy?  I'm  using  his  oil  to  feed  my  torch  with: 
yes,  but  it  isn't  really  his  torch  or  mine,  or  his  oil  or 
mine:  they  belong  to  each  of  us  till  we  drop  and  hand 
them  on." 

Archie  turned  a  sobered  glance  on  him.  "I  see  your 
point.  But  if  the  job  had  to  be  done  I  don't  see  that  you 
need  have  done  it  from  his  chair." 

"There's  where  we  differ.  If  I  did  it  at  all  I  had  to 
do  it  in  the  best  way,  and  with  all  the  authority  his 
backing  gave  me.  If  I  owe  your  father  anything,  I 
owe  him  that.  It  would  have  made  him  sick  to  see  the 
job  badly  done.  And  don't  you  see  that  the  way  to 
[  148  ] 


THE   DEBT 

honour  him,  and  show  what  he's  done  for  science,  was 
to  spare  no  advantage  in  my  attack  on  him — that  I'm 
proving  the  strength  of  his  position  by  the  desperate- 
ness  of  my  assault?"  Dredge  paused  and  squared  his 
lounging  shoulders.  "After  all,"  he  added,  "he's  not 
down  yet,  and  if  I  leave  him  standing  I  guess  it'll  be 
some  time  before  anybody  else  cares  to  tackle  him." 

There  was  a  silence  between  the  two  men;  then 
Dredge  continued  in  a  lighter  tone:  "There's  one  thing, 
though,  that  we're  both  in  danger  of  forgetting:  and 
that  is  how  little,  in  the  long  run,  it  all  counts  either 
way."  He  smiled  a  little  at  Archie's  indignant  gesture. 
"The  most  we  can  any  of  us  do — even  by  such  a  mag- 
nificent effort  as  your  father's — is  to  turn  the  great 
marching  army  a  hair's  breadth  nearer  what  seems  to 
us  the  right  direction;  if  one  of  us  drops  out,  here  and 
there,  the  loss  of  headway's  hardly  perceptible.  And 
that's  what  I'm  coming  to  now." 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  walked  across  to  the  hearth; 
then,  cautiously  resting  his  shoulder-blades  against  the 
mantel-shelf  jammed  with  miscellaneous  specimens,  he 
bent  his  musing  spectacles  on  Archie. 

"Your  father  would  have  understood  why  I've  done 
what  I'm  doing;  but  that's  no  reason  why  the  rest  of 
you  should.  And  I  rather  think  it's  the  rest  of  you  who've 
suffered  most  from  me.  He  always  knew  what  I  was 
there  for,  and  that  must  have  been  some  comfort  even 
[  149] 


when  I  was  most  in  the  way;  but  I  was  just  an  ordinary 
nuisance  to  you  and  your  mother  and  Mabel.  You 
were  all  too  kind  to  let  me  see  it  at  the  time,  but  I've 
seen  it  since,  and  it  makes  me  feel  that,  after  all,  the 
settling  of  this  matter  lies  with  you.  If  it  hurts  you  to 
have  me  go  on  with  my  examination  of  your  father's 
theory,  I'm  ready  to  drop  the  lectures  to-morrow,  and 
trust  to  the  Lanfear  Laboratory  to  breed  up  a  young 
chap  who'll  knock  us  both  out  in  time.  You've  only 
got  to  say  the  word." 

There  was  a  pause  while  Dredge  turned  and  laid 
his  extinguished  pipe  carefully  between  a  jar  of  em- 
bryo sea-urchins  and  a  colony  of  regenerating  plan- 
arians. 

Then  Archie  rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"No  "  he  said  simply;  "go  on." 


[  150] 


FULL    CIRCLE 


FULL    CIRCLE 


GEOFFREY  BETTON  woke  rather  late— so  late 
that  the  winter  sunlight  sliding  across  his  bed- 
room carpet  struck  his  eyes  as  he  turned  on  the  pillow. 

Strett,  the  valet,  had  been  in,  drawn  the  bath  in 
the  adjoining  dressing-room,  placed  the  crystal  and 
silver  cigarette-box  at  his  side,  put  a  match  to  the  fire, 
and  thrown  open  the  windows  to  the  bright  morning 
air.  It  brought  in,  on  the  glitter  of  sun,  all  the  crisp 
morning  noises — those  piercing  notes  of  the  American 
thoroughfare  that  seem  to  take  a  sharper  vibration 
from  the  clearness  of  the  medium  through  which  they 
pass. 

Betton  raised  himself  languidly.  That  was  the  voice 
of  Fifth  Avenue  below  his  windows.  He  remembered 
that,  when  he  moved  into  his  rooms  eighteen  months 
before,  the  sound  had  been  like  music  to  him :  the  com- 
plex orchestration  to  which  the  tune  of  his  new  life 
was  set.  Now  it  filled  him  with  disgust  and  weariness, 
since  it  had  become  the  symbol  of  the  hurry  and  noise 
of  that  new  life.  He  had  been  far  less  hurried  in  the 
[  153] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

old  days  when  he  had  to  be  up  at  seven,  and  down  at 
the  office  sharp  at  nine.  Now  that  he  got  up  when  he 
chose,  and  his  life  had  no  fixed  framework  of  duties,, 
the  hours  hunted  him  like  a  pack  of  blood-hounds. 

He  dropped  back  on  his  pillow  with  a  groan.  Yes — 
not  a  year  ago  there  had  been  a  positively  sensuous  joy 
in  getting  out  of  bed,  feeling  under  his  bare  feet  the 
softness  of  the  warm  red  carpet,  and  entering  the 
shining  sanctuary  where  his  great  porcelain  bath  prof- 
fered its  renovating  flood.  But  then  a  year  ago  he 
could  still  call  up  the  horror  of  the  communal  plunge 
at  his  earlier  lodgings:  the  listening  for  other  bathers, 
the  dodging  of  shrouded  ladies  in  "  crimping  "-pins,, 
the  cold  wait  on  the  landing,  the  descent  into  a  blotchy 
tin  bath,  and  the  effort  to  identify  one's  soap  and  nail- 
brush among  the  promiscuous  implements  of  ablution. 
That  memory  had  faded  now,  and  Betton  saw  only  the 
dark  hours  to  which  his  tiled  temple  of  refreshment 
formed  a  kind  of  glittering  antechamber.  For  after 
his  bath  came  his  breakfast,  and  on  the  breakfast  tray 
his  letters.  His  letters! 

He  remembered— and  thai  memory  had  not  faded! 
—the  thrill  with  which,  in  the  early  days  of  his 
celebrity,  he  had  opened  the  first  missive  in  a  strange 
feminine  hand:  the  letter  beginning:  "I  wonder  if 
you'll  mind  an  unknown  reader's  telling  you  all  that 
your  book  has  been  to  her?" 
[  154] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

Mind?  Ye  gods,  he  minded  now!  For  more  than 
a  year  after  the  publication  of  "Diadems  and  Faggots" 
the  letters,  the  inane  indiscriminate  letters  of  commenda- 
tion, of  criticism,  of  interrogation,  had  poured  in  on 
him  by  every  post.  Hundreds  of  unknown  readers  had 
told  him  with  unsparing  detail  all  that  his  book  had  been 
to  them.  And  the  wonder  of  it  was,  when  all  was  said 
and  done,  that  it  had  really  been  so  little — that  when 
their  thick  broth  of  praise  was  strained  through  the 
author's  searching  vanity  there  remained  to  him  so  small 
a  sediment  of  definite  specific  understanding!  No — it 
was  always  the  same  thing,  over  and  over  and  over 
again — the  same  vague  gush  of  adjectives,  the  same 
incorrigible  tendency  to  estimate  his  effort  according 
to  each  writer's  personal  preferences,  instead  of  re- 
garding it  as  a  work  of  art,  a  thing  to  be  measured  by 
fixed  standards! 

He  smiled  to  think  how  little,  at  first,  he  had  felt 
the  vanity  of  it  all.  He  had  found  a  savour  even  in  the 
grosser  evidences  of  popularity:  the  advertisements  of 
his  book,  the  daily  shower  of  "clippings,"  the  sense 
that,  when  he  entered  a  restaurant  or  a  theatre,  people 
nudged  each  other  and  said  "That's  Betton."  Yes, 
the  publicity  had  been  sweet  to  him — at  first.  He  had 
been  touched  by  the  sympathy  of  his  fellow-men :  had 
thought  indulgently  of  the  world,  as  a  better  place  than 
the  failures  and  the  dyspeptics  would  acknowledge.  And 
[  155  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

then  his  success  began  to  submerge  him:  he  gasped 
under  the  thickening  shower  of  letters.  His  admirers 
were  really  unappeasable.  And  they  wanted  him  to  do 
such  ridiculous  things — to  give  lectures,  to  head  move- 
ments, to  be  tendered  receptions,  to  speak  at  ban- 
quets, to  address  mothers,  to  plead  for  orphans,  to  go 
up  in  balloons,  to  lead  the  struggle  for  sterilised  milk. 
They  wanted  his  photograph  for  literary  supplements, 
his  autograph  for  charity  bazaars,  his  name  on  com- 
mittees, literary,  educational,  and  social;  above  all,  they 
wanted  his  opinion  on  everything:  on  Christianity, 
Buddhism,  tight  lacing,  the  drug  habit,  democratic 
government,  female  suffrage  and  love.  Perhaps  the 
chief  benefit  of  this  demand  was  his  incidentally  learn- 
ing from  it  how  few  opinions  he  really  had:  the  only 
one  that  remained  with  him  was  a  rooted  horror  of 
all  forms  of  correspondence.  He  had  been  unspeakably 
thankful  when  the  letters  began  to  fall  off. 

"Diadems  and  Faggots"  was  now  two  years  old, 
and  the  moment  was  at  hand  when  its  author  miirht 

o 

have  counted  on  regaining  the  blessed  shelter  of  ob- 
livion— if  only  he  had  not  written  another  book!  For 
it  was  the  worst  part  of  his  plight  that  the  result  of  his 
first  folly  had  goaded  him  to  the  perpetration  of  the 
next — that  one  of  the  incentives  (hideous  thought!)  to 
his  new  work  had  been  the  desire  to  extend  and  per- 
petuate his  popularity.  And  this  very  week  the  book  was 
[  156] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

to  come  out,  and  the  letters,  the  cursed  letters,  would 
begin  again! 

Wistfully,  almost  plaintively,  he  looked  at  the 
breakfast-tray  with  which  Strett  presently  appeared. 
It  bore  only  two  notes  and  the  morning  journals,  but 
he  knew  that  within  the  week  it  would  groan  under 
its  epistolary  burden.  The  very  newspapers  flung  the 
fact  at  him  as  he  opened  them. 

READY  ON  MONDAY. 
GEOFFREY  BETTON'S  NEW  NOVEL 

ABUNDANCE. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  DIADEMS  AND  FAGGOTS." 

FIRST  EDITION  OF  ONE  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTY  THOUSAND 

ALREADY  SOLD  OUT. 

ORDER  Now. 

A  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  volumes!  And  an 
average  of  three  readers  to  each!  Half  a  million  of 
people  would  be  reading  him  within  a  week,  and  every 
one  of  them  would  write  to  him,  and  their  friends  and 
relations  would  write  too.  He  laid  down  the  paper  with 
a  shudder. 

The  two  notes  looked  harmless  enough,  nnd  the  ca- 

ligraphy  of  one  was  vaguely  familiar.  He  opened  the 

envelope  and  looked  at  the  signature:  Duncan  Vyse. 

He  had  not  seen  the  name  in  years — what  on  earth  could 

[  157] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

Duncan  Vyse  have  to  say?  He  ran  over  the  page  and 
dropped  it  with  a  wondering  exclamation,  which  the 
watchful  Strett,  re-entering,  met  by  a  tentative  "Yes, 
sir?" 

"Nothing.  Yes — that  is —  "  Betton  picked  up  the 
note.  "There's  a  gentleman,  a  Mr.  Vyse,  coming  at 
ten." 

Strett  glanced  at  the  clock.  "Yes,  sir.  You'll  remem- 
ber that  ten  was  the  hour  you  appointed  for  the  secre- 
taries to  call,  sir." 

Betton  nodded.  "I'll  see  Mr.  Vyse  first.  My  clothes, 
please." 

As  he  got  into  them,  in  the  state  of  nervous  hurry 
that  had  become  almost  chronic  with  him,  he  continued 
to  think  about  Duncan  Vyse.  They  had  seen  a  great 
deal  of  each  other  for  the  few  years  after  both  had  left 
Harvard :  the  hard  happy  years  when  Betton  had  been 
grinding  at  his  business  and  Vyse — poor  devil! — trying 
to  write.  The  novelist  recalled  his  friend's  attempts  with 
a  smile;  then  the  memory  of  one  small  volume  came 
back  to  him.  It  was  a  novel:  "The  Lifted  Lamp." 
There  was  stuff  in  that,  certainly.  He  remembered 
Vyse's  tossing  it  down  on  his  table  with  a  gesture  of 
despair  when  it  came  back  from  the  last  publisher. 
Betton,  taking  it  up  indifferently,  had  sat  riveted  till 
daylight.  When  he  ended,  the  impression  was  so  strong 
that  he  said  to  himself:  "I'll  tell  Apthorn  about  it— I'll 
[  158  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

go  and  see  him  to-morrow."  His  own  secret  literary 
yearnings  increased  his  desire  to  champion  Vyse,  to  see 
him  triumph  over  the  dulness  and  timidity  of  the  pub- 
lishers. Apthorn  was  the  youngest  of  the  guild,  still 
capable  of  opinions  and  the  courage  of  them,  a  per- 
sonal friend  of  Betton's,  and,  as  it  happened,  the  man 
afterward  to  become  known  as  the  privileged  pub- 
lisher of  "Diadems  and  Faggots."  Unluckily  the  next 
day  something  unexpected  turned  up,  and  Betton  for- 
got about  Vyse  and  his  manuscript.  He  continued  to 
forget  for  a  month,  and  then  came  a  note  from  Vyse, 
who  was  ill,  and  wrote  to  ask  what  his  friend  had  done. 
Betton  did  not  like  to  say  "I've  done  nothing,"  so  he 
left  the  note  unanswered,  and  vowed  again:  "I'll  see 
Apthorn." 

The  following  day  he  was  called  to  the  West  on  busi- 
ness, and  was  away  a  month.  When  he  came  back,  there 
was  a  third  note  from  Vyse,  who  was  still  ill,  and  des- 
perately hard  up.  "I'll  take  anything  for  the  book,  if 
they'll  advance  me  two  hundred  dollars."  Betton,  full 
of  compunction,  would  gladly  have  advanced  the  sum 
himself;  but  he  was  hard  up  too,  and  could  only  swear 
inwardly:  "I'll  write  to  Apthorn."  Then  he  glanced 
again  at  the  manuscript,  and  reflected :  "  No — there  are 
things  in  it  that  need  explaining.  I'd  better  see  him." 
Once  he  went  so  far  as  to  telephone  Apthorn,  but 
[  159  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

the  publisher  was  out.  Then  he  finally  and  completely 
forgot. 

One  Sunday  he  went  out  of  town,  and  on  his  return, 
rummaging  among  the  papers  on  his  desk,  he  missed 
"The  Lifted  Lamp,"  which  had  been  gathering  dust 
there  for  half  a  year.  What  the  deuce  could  have  be- 
come of  it  ?  Betton  spent  a  feverish  hour  in  vainly  in- 
creasing the  disorder  of  his  documents,  and  then  be- 
thought himself  of  calling  the  maid-servant,  who  first 
indignantly  denied  having  touched  anything  ("I  can 
see  that's  true  from  the  dust,"  Betton  scathingly  re- 
marked), and  then  mentioned  with  hauteur  that  a 
young  lady  had  called  in  his  absence  and  asked  to  be 
allowed  to  get  a  book. 

"A  lady?  Did  you  let  her  come  up  ?" 

"She  said  somebody'd  sent  her." 

Vyse,  of  course — Vyse  had  sent  her  for  his  manu- 
script! He  was  always  mixed  up  with  some  woman,  and 
it  was  just  like  him  to  send  the  girl  of  the  moment  to 
Betton's  lodgings,  with  instructions  to  force  the  door 
in  his  absence.  Vyse  had  never  been  remarkable  for 
delicacy.  Betton,  furious,  glanced  over  his  table  to  see 
if  any  of  his  own  effects  were  missing — one  couldn't 
tell,  with  the  company  Vyse  kept!— and  then  dismissed 
the  matter  from  his  mind,  with  a  vague  sense  of  mag- 
nanimity in  doing  so.  He  felt  himself  exonerated  by 
Vyse's  conduct. 

[  160  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

The  sense  of  magnanimity  was  still  uppermost  when 
the  valet  opened  the  door  to  announce  "Mr.  Vyse," 
and  Betton,  a  moment  later,  crossed  the  threshold  of 
his  pleasant  library. 

His  first  thought  was  that  the  man  facing  him  from 
the  hearth-rug  was  the  very  Duncan  Vyse  of  old :  small, 
starved,  bleached -looking,  with  the  same  sidelong 
movements,  the  same  air  of  anaemic  truculence.  Only 
he  had  grown  shabbier,  and  bald. 

Betton  held  out  a  hospitable  hand. 

"This  is  a  good  surprise!  Glad  you  looked  me  up, 
my  dear  fellow." 

Vyse's  palm  was  damp  and  bony:  he  had  always  had 
a  disagreeable  hand. 

"You  got  my  note?  You  know  what  I've  come 
for?" 

"About  the  secretaryship?  (Sit  down.)  Is  that  really 
serious?" 

Betton  lowered  himself  luxuriously  into  one  of  his 
vast  Maple  arm-chairs.  He  had  grown  stouter  in  the 
last  year,  and  the  cushion  behind  him  fitted  comfort- 
ably into  the  crease  of  his  nape.  As  he  leaned  back  he 
caught  sight  of  his  image  in  the  mirror  between  the 
windows,  and  reflected  uneasily  that  Vyse  would  not 
find  him  unchanged. 

"Serious?"  Vyse  rejoined.  "Why  not?  Aren't 
you?" 


FULL   CIRCLE 

"Oh,  perfectly."  Betton  laughed  apologetically. 
"Only — well,  the  fact  is,  you  may  not  understand  what 
rubbish  a  secretary  of  mine  would  have  to  deal  with 
In  advertising  for  one  I  never  imagined — I  didn't  as- 
pire to  any  one  above  the  ordinary  hack." 

"I'm  the  ordinary  hack,"  said  Vyse  drily. 

Betton 's  affable  gesture  protested.  "My  dear  fel- 
low  .  You  see  it's  not  business — what  I'm  in  now," 

he  continued  with  a  laugh. 

Vyse's  thin  lips  seemed  to  form  a  noiseless  "Isn't 
it?"  which  they  instantly  transposed  into  the  audible 
reply:  "I  judged  from  your  advertisement  that  you 
want  some  one  to  relieve  you  in  your  literary  work. 
Dictation,  short-hand — that  kind  of  thing?" 

"Well,  no:  not  that  either.  I  type  my  own  things. 
What  I'm  looking  for  is  somebody  who  won't  be  above 
tackling  my  correspondence." 

Vyse  looked  slightly  surprised.  "I  should  be  glad 
of  the  job,"  he  then  said. 

Betton  began  to  feel  a  vague  embarrassment.  He 
had  supposed  that  such  a  proposal  would  be  instantly 
rejected.  "It  would  be  only  for  an  hour  or  two  a  day— 
if  you're  doing  any  writing  of  your  own  ? "  he  threw 
out  interrogatively. 

"No.  I've  given  all  that  up.  I'm  in  an  office  now — 
business.  But  it  doesn't  take  all  my  time,  or  pay  enough 
to  keep  me  alive." 

[  162] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

"In  that  case,  my  dear  fellow — if  you  could  come 
every  morning;  but  it's  mostly  awful  bosh,  you  know," 
Betton  again  broke  off,  with  growing  awkwardness. 

Vyse  glanced  at  him  humorously.  "What  you  want 
me  to  write?" 

"Well,  that  depends —  "  Betton  sketched  the  ob- 
ligatory smile.  "But  I  was  thinking  of  the  letters  you'll 
have  to  answer.  Letters  about  my  books,  you  know— 
I've  another  one  appearing  next  week.  And  I  want  to 
be  beforehand  now — dam  the  flood  before  it  swamps 
me.  Have  you  any  idea  of  the  deluge  of  stuff  that  peo- 
ple write  to  a  successful  novelist  ? " 

As  Betton  spoke,  he  saw  a  tinge  of  red  on  Vyse's  thin 
cheek,  and  his  own  reflected  it  in  a  richer  glow  of  shame. 
"I  mean — I  mean "  he  stammered  helplessly. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  said  Vyse;  "but  it  will  be  awfully 
jolly  finding  out." 

There  was  a  pause,  groping  and  desperate  on  Betton 's 
part,  sardonically  calm  on  his  visitor's. 

"You — you've  given  up  writing  altogether?"  Betton 
continued. 

"Yes;  we've  changed  places,  as  it  were."  Vyse  paused. 
"But  about  these  letters — you  dictate  the  answers?" 

"Lord,  no!  That's  the  reason  why  I  said  I  wanted 
somebody — er— well  used  to  writing.  I  don't  want  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  them — not  a  thing!  You'll 
have  to  answer  them  as  if  they  were  written  to  you — 
[  163  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

Betton  pulled  himself  up  again,  and  rising  in  confusion 
jerked  open  one  of  the  drawers  of  his  writing-table. 

"Here — this  kind  of  rubbish,"  he  said,  tossing  a 
packet  of  letters  onto  Vyse's  knee. 

"Oh — you  keep  them,  do  you?"  said  Vyse  simply. 

"I — well — some  of  them;  a  few  of  the  funniest 
only." 

Vyse  slipped  off  the  band  and  began  to  open  the 
letters.  While  he  was  glancing  over  them  Betton  again 
caught  his  own  reflection  in  the  glass,  and  asked  him- 
self what  impression  he  had  made  on  his  visitor.  It 
occurred  to  him  for  the  first  time  that  his  high-coloured 
well-fed  person  presented  the  image  of  commercial 
rather  than  of  intellectual  achievement.  He  did  not 
look  like  his  own  idea  of  the  author  of  "Diadems  and 
Faggots" — and  he  wondered  why. 

Vyse  laid  the  letters  aside.  "I  think  I  can  do  it — if 
you'll  give  me  a  notion  of  the  tone  I'm  to  take." 

"The  tone?" 

"Yes — that  is,  if  you  expect  me  to  sign  your  name." 

"Oh,  of  course  you're  to  sign  for  me.  As  for  the 
tone,  say  just  what  you'd— well,  say  all  you  can  with- 
out encouraging  them  to  answer." 

Vyse  rose  from  his  seat.  "I  could  submit  a  few  speci- 
mens," he  suggested. 

"Oh,  as  to  that — you  always  wrote  better  than  I 
do,"  said  Betton  handsomely. 
[  164] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

"I've  never  had  this  kind  of  thing  to  write.  When  do 
you  wish  me  to  begin?"  Vyse  inquired,  ignoring  the 
tribute. 

"The  book's  out  on  Monday.  The  deluge  will  prob- 
ably begin  about  three  days  after.  Will  you  turn  up  on 
Thursday  at  this  hour?"  Betton  held  his  hand  out 
with  real  heartiness.  "It  was  great  luck  for  me,  your 
striking  that  advertisement.  Don't  be  too  harsh  with 
my  correspondents — I  owe  them  something  for  having 
brought  us  together." 


II 

THE  deluge  began  punctually  on  the  Thursday,  and 
Vyse,  arriving  as  punctually,  had  an  impressive  pile 
of  letters  to  attack.  Betton,  on  his  way  to  the  Park  for 
a  ride,  came  into  the  library,  smoking  the  cigarette  of 
indolence,  to  look  over  his  secretary's  shoulder. 

"How  many  of  'em?  Twenty?  Good  Lord!  It's 
going  to  be  worse  than  'Diadems.'  I've  just  had  my 
first  quiet  breakfast  in  two  years — time  to  read  the 
papers  and  loaf.  How  I  used  to  dread  the  sight  of  my 
letter-box!  Now  I  shan't  know  that  I  have  one." 

He  leaned  over  Vyse's  chair,  and  the  secretary 
handed  him  a  letter. 

"Here's  rather  an  exceptional  one — lady,  evidently. 
I  thought  you  might  want  to  answer  it  yourself— 
[  165  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

"Exceptional?"  Betton  ran  over  the  mauve  pages 
and  tossed  them  down.  "Why,  my  dear  man,  I  get 
hundreds  like  that.  You'll  have  to  be  pretty  short  with 
her,  or  she'll  send  her  photograph." 

He  clapped  Vyse  on  the  shoulder  and  turned  away, 
humming  a  tune.  "Stay  to  luncheon,"  he  called  back 
gaily  from  the  threshold. 

After  luncheon  Vyse  insisted  on  showing  a  few  of 
his  answers  to  the  first  batch  of  letters.  "If  I've  struck 
the  note  I  won't  bother  you  again,"  he  urged;  and  Bet- 
ton  groaningly  consented. 

"My  dear  fellow,  they're  beautiful — too  beautiful. 
I'll  be  let  in  for  a  correspondence  with  every  one  of 
these  people." 

Vyse,  in  reply,  mused  for  a  while  above  a  blank 
sheet.  "All  right — how's  this?"  he  said,  after  another 
interval  of  rapid  writing. 

Betton  glanced  over  the  page.  "By  George — by 
George!  Won't  she  see  it?"  he  exulted,  between  fear 
and  rapture. 

"It's  wonderful  how  little  people  see,"  said  Vyse 
reassuringly. 

The  letters  continued  to  pour  in  for  several  weeks  after 
the  appearance  of  "Abundance."  For  five  or  six  bliss- 
ful days  Betton  did  not  even  have  his  mail  brought  to 
him,  trusting  to  Vyse  to  single  out  his  personal  corre- 
[  166] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

spondence,  and  to  deal  with  the  rest  of  the  letters  ac- 
cording to  their  agreement.  During  those  days  he  lux- 
uriated in  a  sense  of  wild  and  lawless  freedom;  then, 
gradually,  he  began  to  feel  the  need  of  fresh  restraints 
to  break,  and  learned  that  the  zest  of  liberty  lies  in  the 
escape  from  specific  obligations.  At  first  he  was  con- 
scious only  of  a  vague  hunger,  but  in  time  the  crav- 
ing resolved  itself  into  a  shame-faced  desire  to  see  his 
letters. 

"After  all,  I  hated  them  only  because  I  had  to  answer 
them";  and  he  told  Vyse  carelessly  that  he  wished  all 
his  letters  submitted  to  him  before  the  secretary  an- 
swered them. 

The  first  morning  he  pushed  aside  those  beginning: 
"I  have  just  laid  down  'Abundance'  after  a  third  read- 
ing," or:  "Every  day  for  the  last  month  I  have  been 
telephoning  my  bookseller  to  know  when  your  novel 
would  be  out."  But  little  by  little  the  freshness  of  his 
interest  revived,  and  even  this  stereotyped  homage  be- 
gan to  arrest  his  eye.  At  last  a  day  came  when  he  read 
all  the  letters,  from  the  first  word  to  the  last,  as  he 
had  done  when  "Diadems  and  Faggots"  appeared. 
It  was  really  a  pleasure  to  read  them,  now  that  he  was 
relieved  of  the  burden  of  replying:  his  new  relation  to 
his  correspondents  had  the  glow  of  a  love-affair  un- 
chilled  by  the  contingency  of  marriage. 

One  day  it  struck  him  that  the  letters  were  coming 
[167] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

in  more  slowly  and  in  smaller  numbers.  Certainly  there 
had  been  more  of  a  rush  when  "Diadems  and  Faggots" 
came  out.  Betton  began  to  wonder  if  Vyse  were  exer- 
cising an  unauthorised  discrimination,  and  keeping 
back  the  communications  he  deemed  least  important. 
This  conjecture  carried  the  novelist  straight  to  his 
library,  where  he  found  Vyse  bending  over  the  writing- 
table  with  his  usual  inscrutable  pale  smile.  But  once 
there,  Betton  hardly  knew  how  to  frame  his  question, 
and  blundered  into  an  inquiry  for  a  missing  invitation. 

"There's  a  note — a  personal  note — I  ought  to  have 
had  this  morning.  Sure  you  haven't  kept  it  back  by 
mistake  among  the  others?" 

Vyse  laid  down  his  pen.  "The  others?  But  I  never 
keep  back  any." 

Betton  had  foreseen  the  answer.  "Not  even  the  worst 
twaddle  about  my  book?"  he  suggested  lightly,  push- 
ing the  papers  about. 

"  Nothing.  I  understood  you  wanted  to  go  over  them 
all  first." 

"Well,  perhaps  it's  safer,"  Betton  conceded,  as  if 
the  idea  were  new  to  him.  With  an  embarrassed  hand 
he  continued  to  turn  over  the  letters  at  Vyse's  elbow. 

"Those  are  yesterday's,"  said  the  secretary;  "here 
are  to-day's,"  he  added,  pointing  to  a  meagre  trio. 

"H'm— only  these?"  Betton  took  them  and  looked 
them  over  lingeringly.  "I  don't  see  what  the  deuce  that 
[  168  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

chap  means  about  the  first  part  of  'Abundance'  'cer- 
tainly justifying  the  title' — do  you?" 

Vyse  was  silent,  and  the  novelist  continued  irritably: 
"Damned  cheek,  his  writing,  if  he  doesn't  like  the  book. 
Who  cares  what  he  thinks  about  it,  anyhow  ?" 

And  his  morning  ride  was  embittered  by  the  dis- 
covery that  it  was  unexpectedly  disagreeable  to  have 
Vyse  read  any  letters  which  did  not  express  unqualified 
praise  of  his  books.  He  began  to  fancy  that  there  was  a 
latent  rancour,  a  kind  of  baffled  sneer,  under  Vyse's 
manner;  and  he  decided  to  return  to  the  practice  of  hav- 
ing his  mail  brought  straight  to  his  room.  In  that  way 
he  could  edit  the  letters  before  his  secretary  saw  them. 

Vyse  made  no  comment  on  the  change,  and  Betton 
was  reduced  to  wondering  whether  his  imperturbable 
composure  were  the  mask  of  complete  indifference  or 
of  a  watchful  jealousy.  The  latter  view  being  more 
agreeable  to  his  employer's  self-esteem,  the  next  step 
was  to  conclude  that  Vyse  had  not  forgotten  the  episode 
of  "The  Lifted  Lamp,"  and  would  naturally  take  a 
vindictive  joy  in  any  unfavourable  judgments  passed  on 
his  rival's  work.  This  did  not  simplify  the  situation,  for 
there  was  no  denying  that  unfavourable  criticisms  pre- 
ponderated in  Betton's  correspondence.  "Abundance" 
was  neither  meeting  with  the  unrestricted  welcome  of 
"Diadems  and  Faggots,"  nor  enjoying  the  alternative 
of  an  animated  controversy:  it  was  simply  found  dull, 
[  169  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

and  its  readers  said  so  in  language  not  too  tactfully 
tempered  by  comparisons  with  its  predecessor.  To 
withhold  unfavourable  comments  from  Vyse  was,  there- 
fore, to  make  it  appear  that  correspondence  about  the 
book  had  died  out;  and  its  author,  mindful  of  his  un- 
guarded predictions,  found  this  even  more  embarrass- 
ing. The  simplest  solution  would  be  to  get  rid  of  Vyse; 
and  to  this  end  Betton  began  to  address  his  energies. 

One  evening,  finding  himself  unexpectedly  disen- 
gaged, he  asked  Vyse  to  dine;  it  had  occurred  to  him 
that,  in  the  course  of  an  after-dinner  chat,  he  might 
hint  his  feeling  that  the  work  he  had  offered  his  friend 
was  unworthy  so  accomplished  a  hand. 

Vyse  surprised  him  by  a  momentary  hesitation.  "I 
may  not  have  time  to  dress." 

Betton  brushed  the  objection  aside.  "What's  the 
odds?  We'll  dine  here — and  as  late  as  you  like." 

Vyse  thanked  him,  and  appeared,  punctually  at 
eight,  in  all  the  shabbiness  of  his  daily  wear.  He  looked 
paler  and  more  shyly  truculent  than  usual,  and  Betton, 
from  the  height  of  his  florid  stature,  said  to  himself, 
with  the  sudden  professional  instinct  for  "type":  "He 
might  be  an  agent  of  something — a  chap  who  carries 
deadly  secrets." 

Vyse,  it  was  to  appear,  did  carry  a  deadly  secret;  but 
one  less  perilous  to  society  than  to  himself.  He  was  sim- 
ply poor— unpardonably,  irremediably  poor.  Everything 
[  170  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

failed  him,  had  always  failed  him:  whatever  he  put  his 
hand  to  went  to  bits. 

This  was  the  confession  that,  reluctantly,  yet  with 
a  kind  of  white-lipped  bravado,  he  flung  at  Betton  in 
answer  to  the  latter's  tentative  suggestion  that,  really, 
the  letter-answering  job  wasn't  worth  bothering  him 
with — a  thing  that  any  type-writer  could  do. 

"  If  you  mean  that  you're  paying  me  more  than  it's 
wTorth,  I'll  take  less,"  Vyse  rushed  out  after  a  pause. 

"Oh,  my  dear  fellow "  Betton  protested,  flushing. 

"What  do  you  mean,  then  ?  Don't  I  answer  the  letters 
as  you  want  them  answered  ?" 

Betton  anxiously  stroked  his  silken  ankle.  "You  do 
it  beautifully,  too  beautifully.  I  mean  what  I  say:  the 
work's  not  worthy  of  you.  I'm  ashamed  to  ask  you — 

"Oh,  hang  shame,"  Vyse  interrupted.  "Do  you 
know  why  I  said  I  shouldn't  have  time  to  dress  to- 
night? Because  I  haven't  any  evening  clothes.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  I  haven't  much  but  the  clothes  I  stand 
in.  One  thing  after  another's  gone  against  me;  all  the 
infernal  ingenuities  of  chance.  It's  been  a  slow  Chinese 
torture,  the  kind  where  they  keep  you  alive  to  have 
more  fun  killing  you."  He  straightened  himself  with 
a  sudden  blush.  "Oh,  I'm  all  right  now — getting  on 
capitally.  But  I'm  still  walking  rather  a  narrow  plank; 
and  if  I  do  your  work  well  enough — if  I  take  your 

idea " 

[171] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

Betton  stared  into  the  fire  without  answering.  He 
knew  next  to  nothing  of  Vyse's  history,  of  the  mischance 
or  mismanagement  that  had  brought  him,  with  his 
brains  and  his  training,  to  so  unlikely  a  pass.  But  a 
pang  of  compunction  shot  through  him  as  he  remem- 
bered the  manuscript  of  "The  Lifted  Lamp"  gathering 
dust  on  his  table  for  half  a  year. 

"Not  that  it  would  have  made  any  earthly  difference 
— since  he's  evidently  never  been  able  to  get  the  thing 
published."  But  this  reflection  did  not  wholly  console 
Betton,  and  he  found  it  impossible,  at  the  moment,  to 
tell  Vyse  that  his  services  were  not  needed. 


Ill 

DURING  the  ensuing  weeks  the  letters  grew  fewer  and 
fewer,  and  Betton  foresaw  the  approach  of  the  fatal 
day  when  his  secretary,  in  common  decency,  would 
have  to  say:  "I  can't  draw  my  pay  for  doing  nothing." 

What  a  triumph  for  Vyse ! 

The  thought  was  intolerable,  and  Betton  cursed  his 
weakness  in  not  having  dismissed  the  fellow  before 
such  a  possibility  arose. 

"If  I  tell  him  I've  no  use  for  him  now,  he'll  see 
straight  through  it,  of  course;— and  then,  hang  it,  he 
looks  so  poor!" 

This  consideration  came  after  the  other,  but  Betton, 
[ 


FULL   CIRCLE 

in  rearranging  them,  put  it  first,  because  he  thought  it 
looked  better  there,  and  also  because  he  immediately 
perceived  its  value  in  justifying  a  plan  of  action  that 
was  beginning  to  take  shape  in  his  mind. 

"Poor  devil,  I'm  damned  if  I  don't  do  it  for  him!" 
said  Betton,  sitting  down  at  his  desk. 

Three  or  four  days  later  he  sent  word  to  Vyse  that 
he  didn't  care  to  go  over  the  letters  any  longer,  and  that 
they  would  once  more  be  carried  directly  to  the  library. 

The  next  time  he  lounged  in,  on  his  way  to  his  morn- 
ing ride,  he  found  his  secretary's  pen  in  active  mo- 
tion. 

"A  lot  to-day,"  Vyse  told  him  cheerfully. 

His  tone  irritated  Betton:  it  had  the  inane  optimism 
of  the  physician  reassuring  a  discouraged  patient. 

"Oh,  Lord — I  thought  it  was  almost  over,"  groaned 
the  novelist. 

"No:  they've  just  got  their  second  wind.  Here's  one 
from  a  Chicago  publisher — never  heard  the  name — 
offering  you  thirty  per  cent,  on  your  next  novel,  with 
an  advance  royalty  of  twenty  thousand.  And  here's  a 
chap  who  wants  to  syndicate  it  for  a  bunch  of  Sunday 
papers:  big  offer,  too.  That's  from  Ann  Arbor.  And  this 
— oh,  this  one's  funny!" 

He  held  up  a  small  scented  sheet  to  Betton,  who 
made  no  movement  to  receive  it. 

"Funny?  Why's  it  funny?"  he  growled. 
[  173  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

"Well,  it's  from  a  girl— a  lady— and  she  thinks  she's 
the  only  person  who  understands  'Abundance'— has  the 
clue  to  it.  Says  she's  never  seen  a  book  so  misrepre- 
sented by  the  critics— 

"Ha,  ha!  That  is  good!"  Betton  agreed  with  too 
loud  a  laugh. 

"This  one's  from  a  lady,  too — married  woman. 
Says  she's  misunderstood,  and  would  like  to  corre- 
spond." 

"Oh,  Lord,"  said  Betton.— "What  are  you  looking 
at?"  he  added  sharply,  as  Vyse  continued  to  bend  his 
blinking  gaze  on  the  letters. 

"  I  was  only  thinking  I'd  never  seen  such  short  letters 
from  women.  Neither  one  fills  the  first  page." 

"Well,  what  of  that?"   queried   Betton. 

Vyse  reflected.  "I'd  like  to  meet  a  woman  like  that," 
he  said  wearily;  and  Betton  laughed  again. 

The  letters  continued  to  pour  in,  and  there  could 
be  no  farther  question  of  dispensing  with  Vyse's  services. 
But  one  morning,  about  three  weeks  later,  the  latter 
asked  for  a  word  with  his  employer,  and  Betton,  on 
entering  the  library,  found  his  secretary  with  half  a 
dozen  documents  spread  out  before  him. 

"What's  up?"  queried  Betton,  with  a  touch  of 
impatience. 

Vyse  was  attentively  scanning  the  outspread  letters. 

"I  don't  know:  can't  make  out."  His  voice  had  a 
[  174] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

faint  note  of  embarrassment.  "Do  you  remember  a 
note  signed  Hester  Macldin  that  came  three  or  four 
weeks  ago?  Married — misunderstood — Western  army 
post — wanted  to  correspond?" 

Betton  seemed  to  grope  among  his  memories;  then 
he  assented  vaguely. 

"A  short  note,"  Vyse  went  on:  "the  whole  story  in 
half  a  page.  The  shortness  struck  me  so  much — and  the 
directness — that  I  wrote  her:  wrote  in  my  own  name, 
I  mean." 

"In  your  own  name?"  Betton  stood  amazed;  then 
he  broke  into  a  groan. 

"Good  Lord,  Vyse — you're  incorrigible!" 

The  secretary  pulled  his  thin  moustache  with  a  ner- 
vous laugh.  "If  you  mean  I'm  an  ass,  you're  right. 
Look  here."  He  held  out  an  envelope  stamped  with  the 
words:  "Dead  Letter  Office."  "My  effusion  has  come 
back  to  me  marked  'unknown.'  There's  no  such  per- 
son at  the  address  she  gave  you." 

Betton  seemed  for  an  instant  to  share  his  secretary's 
embarrassment;  then  he  burst  into  an  uproarious 
laugh. 

"Hoax,  was  it?  That's  rough  on  you,  old  fellow!" 

Vyse  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Yes;  but  the  inter- 
esting question  is — why  on  earth  didn't  your  answer 
come  back,  too?" 

"My  answer?" 

[175] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

"The  official  one— the  one  I  wrote  in  your  name.  If 
she's  unknown,  what's  become  of  that  ?" 

Betton's  eyes  were  wrinkled  by  amusement.  "Per- 
haps she  hadn't  disappeared  then." 

Vyse  disregarded  the  conjecture.  "Look  here — I  be- 
lieve all  these  letters  are  a  hoax,"  he  broke  out. 

Betton  stared  at  him  with  a  face  that  turned  slowly 
red  and  angry.  "What  are  you  talking  about  ?  All  what 
letters?" 

"These  I've  got  spread  out  here:  I've  been  compar- 
ing them.  And  I  believe  they're  all  written  by  one  man." 

Betton's  redness  turned  to  a  purple  that  made  his 
ruddy  moustache  seem  pale.  "What  the  devil  are  you 
driving  at?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  just  look  at  it,"  Vyse  persisted,  still  bent 
above  the  letters.  "I've  been  studying  them  carefully 
— those  that  have  come  within  the  last  two  or  three 
weeks — and  there's  a  queer  likeness  in  the  writing  of 
some  of  them.  The  g's  are  all  like  cork-screws.  And  the 
same  phrases  keep  recurring — the  Ann  Arbor  news- 
agent uses  the  same  expressions  as  the  President  of  the 
Girl's  College  at  Euphorbia,  Maine." 

Betton  laughed.  "Aren't  the  critics  always  groaning 
over  the  shrinkage  of  the  national  vocabulary?  Of 
course  we  all  use  the  same  expressions." 

"Yes,"  said  Vyse  obstinately.  "But  how  about  using 
the  same  gr's  ?  " 

[  176] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

Betton  laughed  again,  but  Vyse  continued  without 
heeding  him:  "Look  here,  Betton — could  Strett  have 
written  them?" 

"Strett?"  Betton  roared.  "Strett?"  He  threw  him- 
self into  his  arm-chair  to  shake  out  his  mirth  at  greater 
ease. 

"I'll  tell  you  why.  Strett  always  posts  all  my  answers. 
He  comes  in  for  them  every  day  before  I  leave.  He 
posted  the  letter  to  the  misunderstood  party — the  letter 
from  you  that  the  Dead  Letter  Office  didn't  return. 
I  posted  my  own  letter  to  her;  and  that  came  back." 

A  measurable  silence  followed  the  emission  of  this 
ingenious  conjecture ;  then  Betton  observed  with  gentle 
irony:  "Extremely  neat.  And  of  course  it's  no  business 
of  yours  to  supply  any  valid  motive  for  this  remark- 
able attention  on  my  valet's  part." 

Vyse  cast  on  him  a  slanting  glance. 

"If  you've  found  that  human  conduct's  generally 
based  on  valid  motives !" 

"Well,  outside  of  mad-houses  it's  supposed  to  be 
not  quite  incalculable." 

Vyse  had  an  odd  smile  under  his  thin  moustache. 
"Every  house  is  a  mad-house  at  some  time  or  an- 
other." 

Betton  rose  with  a  careless  shake  of  the  shoulders. 
"This  one  will  be  if  I  talk  to  you  much  longer,"  he 
said,  moving  away  with  a  laugh. 
[  177  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 
IV 

BETTON  did  not  for  a  moment  believe  that  Vyse  sus- 
pected the  valet  of  having  written  the  letters. 

"Why  the  devil  don't  he  say  out  what  he  thinks? 
He  was  always  a  tortuous  chap,"  he  grumbled  inwardly. 

The  sense  of  being  held  under  the  lens  of  Vyse's 
mute  scrutiny  became  more  and  more  exasperating. 
Betton,  by  this  time,  had  squared  his  shoulders  to  the 
fact  that  "Abundance"  was  a  failure  with  the  public: 
a  confessed  and  glaring  failure.  The  press  told  him  so 
openly,  and  his  friends  emphasised  the  fact  by  their 
circumlocutions  and  evasions.  Betton  minded  it  a  good 
deal  more  than  he  had  expected,  but  not  nearly  as 
much  as  he  minded  Vyse's  knowing  it.  That  remained 
the  central  twinge  in  his  diffused  discomfort.  And  the 
problem  of  getting  rid  of  his  secretary  once  more  en- 
gaged him. 

He  had  set  aside  all  sentimental  pretexts  for  retain- 
ing Vyse;  but  a  practical  argument  replaced  them.  "If 
I  ship  him  now  he'll  think  it's  because  I  'm  ashamed  to 
have  him  see  that  I'm  not  getting  any  more  letters." 

For  the  letters  had  ceased  again,  almost  abruptly, 
since  Vyse  had  hazarded  the  conjecture  that  they  were 
the  product  of  Strett's  devoted  pen.  Betton  had  re- 
verted only  once  to  the  subject— to  ask  ironically,  a 
day  or  two  later:  "Is  Strett  writing  to  me  as  much  as 
[  178] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

ever?" — and,  on  Vyse's  replying  with  a  neutral  head- 
shake,  had  added,  laughing:  "If  you  suspect  him  you'll 
be  thinking  next  that  I  write  the  letters  myself!" 

"There  are  very  few  to-day,"  said  Vyse,  with  an 
irritating  evasiveness;  and  Betton  rejoined  squarely: 
"Oh,  they'll  stop  soon.  The  book's  a  failure." 

A  few  mornings  later  he  felt  a  rush  of  shame  at  his 
own  tergiversations,  and  stalked  into  the  library  with 
Vyse's  sentence  on  his  tongue. 

Vyse  was  sitting  at  the  table  making  pencil-sketches 
of  a  girl's  profile.  Apparently  there  was  nothing  else  for 
him  to  do. 

"Is  that  your  idea  of  Hester  Macklin?"  asked  Bet- 
ton  jovially,  leaning  over  him. 

Vyse  started  back  with  one  of  his  anaemic  blushes. 
"I  was  hoping  you'd  be  in.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you. 
There've  been  no  letters  the  last  day  or  two,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

Betton  drew  a  quick  breath  of  relief.  The  man  had 
some  sense  of  decency,  then!  He  meant  to  dismiss 
himself. 

"I  told  you  so,  my  dear  fellow;  the  book's  a  flat 
failure,"  he  said,  almost  gaily. 

Vyse  made  a  deprecating  gesture.  "I  don't  know  that 

I  should   regard   the  absence  of  letters   as  the  final 

test.  But  I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  there  isn't  something 

else  I  can  do  on  the  days  when  there's  no  writing." 

[  179] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

He  turned  his  glance  toward  the  book-lined  walls. 
"Don't  you  want  your  library  catalogued?"  he  asked 
insidiously. 

"Had  it  done  last  year,  thanks."  Betton  glanced 
away  from  Vyse's  face.  It  was  piteous  how  he  needed 
the  job! 

"  I  see.  .  .  Of  course  this  is  just  a  temporary  lull  in 
the  letters.  They'll  begin  again — as  they  did  before. 
The  people  who  read  carefully  read  slowly — you  haven't 
heard  yet  what  they  think." 

Betton  felt  a  rush  of  puerile  joy  at  the  suggestion. 
Actually,  he  hadn't  thought  of  that! 

"There  was  a  big  second  crop  after  'Diadems  and 
Faggots,'"  he  mused  aloud. 

"Of  course.  Wait  and  see,"  said  Vyse  confidently. 

The  letters  in  fact  began  again — more  gradually  and 
in  smaller  numbers.  But  their  quality  was  different, 
as  Vyse  had  predicted.  And  in  two  cases  Betton's  cor- 
respondents, not  content  to  compress  into  one  rapid 
communication  the  thoughts  inspired  by  his  work, 
developed  their  views  in  a  succession  of  really  remark- 
able letters.  One  of  the  writers  was  a  professor  in  a 
Western  college;  the  other  was  a  girl  in  Florida.  In 
their  language,  their  point  of  view,  their  reasons  for 
appreciating  "Abundance,"  they  differed  almost  dia- 
metrically; but  this  only  made  the  unanimity  of  their 
[  180  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

approval  the  more  striking.  The  rush  of  correspondence 
evoked  by  Betton's  earlier  novel  had  produced  nothing 
so  personal,  so  exceptional  as  these  communications. 
He  had  gulped  the  praise  of  "Diadems  and  Faggots" 
as  undiscriminatingly  as  it  was  offered;  now  he  knew 
for  the  first  time  the  subtler  pleasures  of  the  palate. 
He  tried  to  feign  indifference,  even  to  himself;  and  to 
Vyse  he  made  no  sign.  But  gradually  he  felt  a  desire 
to  know  what  his  secretary  thought  of  the  letters,  and, 
above  all,  what  he  was  saying  in  reply  to  them.  And  he 
resented  acutely  the  possibility  of  Vyse's  starting  one  of 
his  clandestine  correspondences  with  the  girl  in  Florida. 
Vyse's  notorious  lack  of  delicacy  had  never  been  more 
vividly  present  to  Betton's  imagination;  and  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  answer  the  letters  himself. 

He  would  keep  Vyse  on,  of  course:  there  were  other 
communications  that  the  secretary  could  attend  to. 
And,  if  necessary,  Betton  would  invent  an  occupation: 
he  cursed  his  stupidity  in  having  betrayed  the  fact  that 
his  books  were  already  catalogued. 

Vyse  showed  no  surprise  when  Betton  announced 
his  intention  of  dealing  personally  with  the  two  cor- 
respondents who  showed  so  flattering  a  reluctance  to 
take  their  leave.  But  Betton  immediately  read  a 
criticism  in  his  lack  of  comment,  and  put  forth,  on 
a  note  of  challenge:  "After  all,  one  must  be  de- 
cent!" 


FULL   CIRCLE 

Vyse  looked  at  him  with  an  evanescent  smile. 
"You'll  have  to  explain  that  you  didn't  write  the  first 
answers." 

Betton  halted.  "Well— I— I  more  or  less  dictated 
them,  didn't  I?" 

"Oh,  virtually,  they're  yours,  of  course  " 

"You  think  I  can  put  it  that  way?" 

"Why  not?"  The  secretary  absently  drew  an  ara- 
besque on  the  blotting-pad.  "Of  course  they'll  keep  it 
up  longer  if  you  write  yourself,"  he  suggested. 

Betton  blushed,  but  faced  the  issue.  "Hang  it  all, 
I  shan't  be  sorry.  They  interest  me.  They're  remark- 
able letters."  And  Vyse,  without  observation,  returned 
to  his  writings. 

The  spring,  that  year,  was  delicious  to  Betton.  His 
college  professor  continued  to  address  him  tersely  but 
cogently  at  fixed  intervals,  and  twice  a  week  eight  ser- 
ried pages  came  from  Florida.  There  were  other  letters, 
too;  he  had  the  solace  of  feeling  that  at  last  "Abun- 
dance" was  making  its  way,  was  reaching  the  people 
who,  as  Vyse  said,  read  slowly  because  they  read  in- 
telligently. But  welcome  as  were  all  these  proofs  of 
his  restored  authority  they  were  but  the  background 
of  his  happiness.  His  life  revolved  for  the  moment 
about  the  personality  of  his  two  chief  correspondents. 
The  professor's  letters  satisfied  his  craving  for  intel- 
lectual recognition,  and  the  satisfaction  he  felt  in  them 
[  182  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

proved  how  completely  he  had  lost  faith  in  himself. 
He  blushed  to  think  that  his  opinion  of  his  work. had 
been  swayed  by  the  shallow  judgments  of  a  public 
whose  taste  he  despised.  Was  it  possible  that  he  had 
allowed  himself  to  think  less  well  of  "Abundance" 
because  it  was  not  to  the  taste  of  the  average  novel- 
reader?  Such  false  humility  was  less  excusable  than 
the  crudest  appetite  for  praise:  it  was  ridiculous  to  try 
to  do  conscientious  work  if  one's  self-esteem  were  at 
the  mercy  of  popular  judgments.  All  this  the  professor's 
letters  delicately  and  indirectly  conveyed  to  Betton, 
with  the  result  that  the  author  of  "Abundance"  began 
to  recognise  in  it  the  ripest  flower  of  his  genius. 

But  if  the  professor  understood  his  book,  the  girl 
from  Florida  understood  him;  and  Betton  was  fully 
alive  to  the  superior  qualities  of  discernment  which 
this  implied.  For  his  lovely  correspondent  his  novel 
was  but  the  starting  point,  the  pretext  of  her  discourse: 
he  himself  was  her  real  object,  and  he  had  the  deli- 
cious sense,  as  their  exchange  of  thoughts  proceeded, 
that  she  was  interested  in  "Abundance"  because  of 
its  author,  rather  than  in  the  author  because  of  his 
book.  Of  course  she  laid  stress  on  the  fact  that  his 
ideas  were  the  object  of  her  contemplation;  but  Betton 's 
agreeable  person  had  permitted  him  some  insight  into 
the  incorrigible  subjectiveness  of  female  judgments, 
and  he  was  pleasantly  aware,  from  the  lady's  tone, 
[  183  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

that  she  guessed  him  to  be  neither  old  nor  ridiculous. 
And  suddenly  he  wrote  to  ask  if  he  might  see  her.  .  . 

The  answer  was  long  in  coming.  Betton  fidgeted  at  the 
delay,  watched,  wondered,  fumed;  then  he  received 
the  one  word  "Impossible." 

He  wrote  back  more  urgently,  and  awaited  the  reply 
with  increasing  eagerness.  A  certain  shyness  had  kept 
him  from  once  more  modifying  the  instructions  re- 
garding his  mail,  and  Strett  still  carried  the  letters 
directly  to  Vyse.  The  hour  when  he  knew  they  were 
passing  under  the  latter's  eyes  was  now  becoming  in- 
tolerable to  Betton,  and  it  was  a  relief  when  the  secre- 
tary, suddenly  advised  of  his  father's  illness,  asked 
permission  to  absent  himself  for  a  fortnight. 

Vyse  departed  just  after  Betton  had  despatched  to 
Florida  his  second  missive  of  entreaty,  and  for  ten  days 
he  tasted  the  joy  of  a  first  perusal  of  his  letters.  The 
answer  from  Florida  was  not  among  them;  but  Bet- 
ton  said  to  himself  "She's  thinking  it  over,"  and  de- 
lay, in  that  light,  seemed  favourable.  So  charming,  in 
fact,  was  this  phase  of  sentimental  suspense  that  he 
felt  a  start  of  resentment  when  a  telegram  apprised 
him  one  morning  that  Vyse  would  return  to  his  post 
that  day. 

Betton  had  slept  later  than  usual,  and,  springing 
out  of  bed  with  the  telegram  in  his  hand,  he  learned 
[  184  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

from  the  clock  that  his  secretary  was  due  in  half  an 
hour.  He  reflected  that  the  morning's  mail  must  long 
since  be  in;  and,  too  impatient  to  wait  for  its  appear- 
ance with  his  breakfast-tray,  he  threw  on  a  dressing- 
gown  and  went  to  the  library.  There  lay  the  letters, 
half  a  dozen  of  them :  but  his  eyes  flew  to  one  envelope, 
and  as  he  tore  it  open  a  warm  wave  rocked  his  heart. 

The  letter  was  dated  a  few  days  after  its  writer 
must  have  received  his  own:  it  had  all  the  qualities  of 
grace  and  insight  to  which  his  unknown  friend  had  ac- 
customed him,  but  it  contained  no  allusion,  however 
indirect,  to  the  special  purport  of  his  appeal.  Even  a 
vanity  less  ingenious  than  Betton's  might  have  read 
in  the  lady's  silence  one  of  the  most  familiar  motions 
of  consent;  but  the  smile  provoked  by  this  inference 
faded  as  he  turned  to  his  other  letters.  For  the  upper- 
most bore  the  superscription  "Dead  Letter  Office," 
and  the  document  that  fell  from  it  was  his  own  last 
letter  from  Florida. 

Betton  studied  the  ironic  "Unknown"  for  an  ap- 
preciable space  of  time;  then  he  broke  into  a  laugh. 
He  had  suddenly  recalled  Vyse's  similar  experience 
with  "Hester  Macklin,"  and  the  light  he  was  able  to 
throw  on  that  episode  was  searching  enough  to  pene- 
trate all  the  dark  corners  of  his  own  adventure.  He  felt 
a  rush  of  heat  to  the  ears;  catching  sight  of  himself  in 
the  glass,  he  saw  a  ridiculous  congested  countenance, 
[  185  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

and  dropped  into  a  chair  to  hide  it  between  his  fists. 
He  was  roused  by  the  opening  of  the  door,  and  Vyse 
appeared. 

"Oh,  I  beg  pardon — you're  ill?"  said  the  sec- 
retary. 

Betton's  only  answer  was  an  inarticulate  murmur  of 
derision;  then  he  pushed  forward  the  letter  with  the  im- 
print of  the  Dead  Letter  Office. 

"Look  at  that,"  he  jeered. 

Vyse  peered  at  the  envelope,  and  turned  it  over  slowly 
in  his  hands.  Betton's  eyes,  fixed  on  him,  saw  his  face 
decompose  like  a  substance  touched  by  some  powerful 
acid.  He  clung  to  the  envelope  as  if  to  gain  time. 

"It's  from  the  young  lady  you've  been  writing  to 
at  Swazee  Springs?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"  It's  from  the  young  lady  I've  been  writing  to  at 
Swazee  Springs." 

"Well — I  suppose  she's  gone  away,"  continued  Vyse, 
rebuilding  his  countenance  rapidly. 

"Yes;  and  in  a  community  numbering  perhaps  a 
hundred  and  fifty  souls,  including  the  dogs  and  chick- 
ens, the  local  post-office  is  so  ignorant  of  her  move- 
ments that  my  letter  has  to  be  sent  to  the  Dead  Letter 
Office." 

Vyse  meditated  on  this;  then  he  laughed  in  turn. 
"After   all,   the   same   thing   happened    to   me— with 
"Hester  Macklin,'  I  mean,"  he  suggested  sheepishly. 
[  186] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

"Just  so,"  said  Betton,  bringing  down  his  clenched 
fist  on  the  table.  "Just  so,"  he  repeated,  in  italics. 

He  caught  his  secretary's  glance,  and  held  it  with 
his  own  for  a  moment.  Then  he  dropped  it  as,  in  pity, 
one  releases  something  scared  and  squirming. 

"The  very  day  my  letter  was  returned  from  Swazee 
Springs  she  wrote  me  this  from  there,"  he  said,  holding 
up  the  last  Florida  missive. 

"Ha!  That's  funny,"  said  Vyse,  with  a  damp  fore- 
head. 

"Yes,  it's  funny,"  said  Betton.  He  leaned  back,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  staring  up  at  the  ceiling,  and  no- 
ticing a  crack  in  the  cornice.  Vyse,  at  the  corner  of  the 
writ  ing- tab  le ,  wa  ited . 

"Shall  I  get  to  work?"  he  began,  after  a  silence 
measurable  by  minutes.  Betton's  gaze  descended  from 
the  cornice. 

"I've  got  your  seat,  haven't  I?"  he  said  politely, 
rising  and  moving  away  from  the  table. 

Vyse,  with  a  quick  gleam  of  relief,  slipped  into  the 
vacant  chair,  and  began  to  stir  about  among  the  pa- 
pers. 

"How's  your  father?"  Betton  asked  from  the 
hearth. 

"Oh,  better — better,  thank  you.  He'll  pull  out 
of  it." 

"But  you  had  a  sharp  scare  for  a  day  or  two?" 
[  187  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

"Yes — it  was  touch  and  go  when  I  got  there." 

Another  pause,  while  Vyse  began  to  classify  the 
letters. 

"And  I  suppose,"  Betton  continued  in  a  steady 
tone,  "your  anxiety  made  you  forget  your  usual  pre- 
cautions— whatever  they  were — about  this  Florida  cor- 
respondence, and  before  you'd  had  time  to  prevent  it 
the  Swazee  post-office  blundered  ?" 

Vyse  lifted  his  head  with  a  quick  movement.  "What 
do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  pushing  back  his  chair. 

"I  mean  that  you  saw  I  couldn't  live  without  flat- 
tery, and  that  you've  been  ladling  it  out  to  me  to  earn 
your  keep." 

Vyse  sat  motionless  and  shrunken,  digging  the 
blotting-pad  with  his  pen.  "What  on  earth  are  you 
driving  at?"  he  repeated. 

"Though  why  the  deuce,"  Betton  continued  in  the 
same  steady  tone,  "you  should  need  to  do  this  kind  of 
work  when  you've  got  such  faculties  at  your  service — 
those  letters  were  wonderful,  my  dear  fellow !  Wliy  in 
the  world  don't  you  write  novels,  instead  of  writing 
to  other  people  about  them?" 

Vyse  straightened  himself  with  an  effort.  "What  are 
you  talking  about,  Betton  ?  Why  the  devil  do  you  think 
/  wrote  those  letters?" 

Betton  held  back  his  answer  with  a  broodin^  face. 

O 

"Because  I  wrote  'Hester  Macklin's'— to  myself!" 
[  188] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

Vyse  sat  stock-still,  without  the  least  outcry  of  won- 
der. "Well ?"  he  finally  said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"And  because  you  found  me  out  (you  see,  you  can't 
even  feign  surprise!) — because  you  saw  through  it  at 
a  glance,  knew  at  once  that  the  letters  were  faked.  And 
when  you'd  foolishly  put  me  on  my  guard  by  pointing 
out  to  me  that  they  were  a  clumsy  forgery,  and  had 
then  suddenly  guessed  that  /  was  the  forger,  you  drew 
the  natural  inference  that  I  had  to  have  popular  ap- 
proval, or  at  least  had  to  make  you  think  I  had  it. 
You  saw  that,  to  me,  the  worst  thing  about  the  failure 
of  the  book  was  having  you  know  it  was  a  failure.  And 
so  you  applied  your  superior — your  immeasurably 
superior — abilities  to  carrying  on  the  humbug,  and  de- 
ceiving me  as  I'd  tried  to  deceive  you.  And  you  did  it 
so  successfully  that  I  don't  see  why  the  devil  you 
haven't  made  your  fortune  writing  novels!" 

Vyse  remained  silent,  his  head  slightly  bent  under 
the  mounting  tide  of  Betton's  denunciation. 

"The  way  you  differentiated  your  people — charac- 
terised them — avoided  my  stupid  mistake  of  making 
the  women's  letters  too  short  and  too  logical,  of  letting 
my  different  correspondents  use  the  same  expressions: 
the  amount  of  ingenuity  and  art  you  wasted  on  it!  I 
swear,  Vyse,  I'm  sorry  that  damned  post-office  went 
back  on  you,"  Betton  went  on,  piling  up  the  waves  of 
his  irony. 

[  189  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

But  at  this  height  they  suddenly  paused,  drew  back 
on  themselves,  and  began  to  recede  before  the  sight  of 
Vyse's  misery.  Something  warm  and  emotional  in  Bet- 
ton's  nature — a  lurking  kindliness,  perhaps,  for  any 
one  who  tried  to  soothe  and  smooth  his  writhing  ego — 
softened  his  eye  as  it  rested  on  the  figure  of  his  sec- 
retary. 

"Look  here,  Vyse — I'm  not  sorry — not  altogether 
sorry  this  has  happened!"  He  moved  across  the  room, 
and  laid  his  hand  on  Vyse's  drooping  shoulder.  "In 
a  queer  illogical  way  it  evens  up  things,  as  it  were.  I 
did  you  a  shabby  turn  once,  years  ago  —  oh,  out  of 
sheer  carelessness,  of  course — about  that  novel  of  yours 
I  promised  to  give  to  Ap thorn.  If  I  had  given  it,  it 
might  not  have  made  any  difference — I'm  not  sure  it 
wasn't  too  good  for  success— but  anyhow,  I  dare  say 
you  thought  my  personal  influence  might  have  helped 
you,  might  at  least  have  got  you  a  quicker  hearing. 
Perhaps  you  thought  it  was  because  the  thing  was  so 
good  that  I  kept  it  back,  that  I  felt  some  nasty  jealousy 
of  your  superiority.  I  swear  to  you  it  wasn't  that— I 
clean  forgot  it.  And  one  day  when  I  came  home  itvwas 
gone:  you'd  sent  and  taken  it  away.  And  I've  always 
thought  since  that  you  might  have  owed  me  a  grudge — 
and  not  unjustly;  so  this  .  .  .  this  business  of  the  let- 
ters ...  the  sympathy  you've  shown  ...  for  I  suppose 
it  is  sympathy  .  .  ?" 

[  190  ] 


FULL   CIRCLE 

Vyse  startled  and  checked  him  by  a  queer  crackling 
laugh. 

"It's  not  sympathy?"  broke  in  Betton,  the  moisture 
drying  out  of  his  voice.  He  withdrew  his  hand  from 
Vyse's  shoulder.  "What  is  it,  then?  The  joy  of  un- 
covering my  nakedness  ?  An  eye  for  an  eye  ?  Is  it  that  ?  " 

Vyse  rose  from  his  seat,  and  with  a  mechanical 
gesture  swept  into  a  heap  all  the  letters  he  had  sorted. 

"I'm  stone  broke,  and  wanted  to  keep  my  job — that's 
what  it  is,"  he  said  wearily  .  .  . 


[191] 


THE  LEGEND 


THE   LEGEND 


ARTHUR  BERNALD  could  never  afterward  recall 
just  when  the  first  conjecture  flashed  on  him: 
oddly  enough,  there  was  no  record  of  it  in  the  agitated 
jottings  of  his  diary.  But,  as  it  seemed  to  him  in  retro- 
spect, he  had  always  felt  that  the  queer  man  at  the 
Wades'  must  be  John  Pellerin,  if  only  for  the  negative 
reason  that  he  couldn't  imaginably  be  any  one  else. 
It  was  impossible,  in  the  confused  pattern  of  the  cen- 
tury's intellectual  life,  to  fit  the  stranger  in  anywhere, 
save  in  the  big  gap  which,  some  five  and  twenty  years 
earlier,  had  been  left  by  Pellerin's  disappearance;  and 
conversely,  such  a  man  as  the  Wades'  visitor  couldn't 
have  lived  for  sixty  years  without  filling,  somewhere  in 
space,  a  nearly  equivalent  void. 

At  all  events,  it  was  certainly  not  to  Doctor  Wade 
or  to  his  mother  that  Bernald  owed  the  hint:  the  good 
unconscious  Wades,  one  of  whose  chief  charms  in  the 
young  man's  eyes  was  that  they  remained  so  robustly 
untainted  by  Pellerinism,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
Doctor  Wade's  younger  brother,  Rowland,  was  among 
its  most  impudently  flourishing  high-priests. 
I"  195  ] 


THE  LEGEND 

The  incident  had  begun  by  Bernald's  running  across 
Doctor  Robert  Wade  one  hot  summer  night  at  the  Uni- 
versity Club,  and  by  Wade's  saying,  in  the  tone  of  un- 
professional laxity  which  the  shadowy  stillness  of  the 
place  invited:  "I  got  hold  of  a  queer  fish  at  St.  Martin's 
the  other  day — case  of  heat-prostration  picked  up  in 
Central  Park.  When  we'd  patched  him  up  I  found  he 
had  nowhere  to  go,  and  not  a  dollar  in  his  pocket,  and 
I  sent  him  down  to  our  place  at  Portchester  to  re- 
build." 

The  opening  roused  his  hearer's  attention.  Bob 
Wade  had  an  instinctive  sense  of  values  that  Bernald 
had  learned  to  trust. 

"What  sort  of  chap  ?  Young  or  old  ?  " 

"Oh,  every  age — full  of  years,  and  yet  with  a  lot  left. 
He  called  himself  sixty  on  the  books." 

"Sixty's  a  good  age  for  some  kinds  of  living.  And 
age  is  purely  subjective.  How  has  he  used  his  sixty 
years?" 

"Well — part  of  them  in  educating  himself,  appar- 
ently. He's  a  scholar — humanities,  languages,  and  so 
forth." 

"Oh — decayed  gentleman,"  Bernald  murmured,  dis- 
appointed. 

"Decayed?  Not  much!"  cried  the  doctor  with  his 
accustomed  literalness.  "I  only  mentioned  that  side 
of  Winterman — his  name's  Wintennan — because  it  was 
[196] 


THE   LEGEND 

the  side  my  mother  noticed  first.  I  suppose  women 
generally  do.  But  it's  only  a  part — a  small  part.  The 
man's  the  big  thing." 

"Really  big?" 

"Well — there  again.  ..  When  I  took  him  down  to 
the  country,  looking  rather  like  a  tramp  from  a  '  Shelter,' 
with  an  untrimmed  beard,  and  a  suit  of  reach-me- 
downs  he'd  slept  round  the  Park  in  for  a  week,  I  felt 
sure  my  mother'd  carry  the  silver  up  to  her  room,  and 
send  for  the  gardener's  dog  to  sleep  in  the  hall.  But 
she  didn't," 

"I  see.  'Women  and  children  love  him.'  Oh,  Wade!" 
Bernald  groaned. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!  You're  out  again.  We  don't  love  him, 
either  of  us.  But  we  feel  him — the  air's  charged  with 
him.  You'll  see." 

And  Bernald  agreed  that  he  would  see,  the  following 
Sunday.  Wade's  inarticulate  attempts  to  characterise 
the  stranger  had  struck  his  friend.  The  human  revela- 
tion had  for  Bernald  a  poignant  and  ever-renewed 
interest,  which  his  trade,  as  the  dramatic  critic  of  a 
daily  paper,  had  hitherto  failed  to  diminish.  And  he 
knew  that  Bob  Wade,  simple  and  undefiled  by  litera- 
ture— Bernald 's  specific  affliction — had  a  free  and 
personal  way  of  judging  men,  and  the  diviner's  knack 
of  .reaching  their  hidden  springs.  During  the  days  that 
followed,  the  young  doctor  gave  Bernald  further  de- 
[  197] 


THE   LEGEND 

tails  about  John  Winterman :  details  not  of  fact — for  in 
that  respect  the  stranger's  reticence  was  baffling — but 
of  impression.  It  appeared  that  Winterman,  while 
lying  insensible  in  the  Park,  had  been  robbed  of  the 
few  dollars  he  possessed;  and  on  leaving  the  hospital, 
still  weak  and  half-blind,  he  had  quite  simply  and  un- 
protestingly  accepted  the  Wades'  offer  to  give  him 
shelter  till  such  time  as  he  should  be  strong  enough  to 
work. 

"But  what's  his  work  ?"  Bernald  interjected.  "  Hasn't 
he  at  least  told  you  that  ?" 

"Well,  writing.  Some  kind  of  writing."  Doctor  Bob 
always  became  vague  when  he  approached  the  confines 
of  literature.  "He  means  to  take  it  up  again  as  soon 
as  his  eyes  get  right." 

Bernald  groaned  again.  "Oh,  Lord — that  finishes 
him ;  and  me !  He's  looking  for  a  publisher,  of  course — 
he  wants  a  'favourable  notice.'  I  won't  come!" 

"He  hasn't  written  a  line  for  twenty  years." 

"A  line  of  what  ?  What  kind  of  literature  can  one 
keep  corked  up  for  twenty  years  ? " 

Wade  surprised  him.  "The  real  kind,  I  should  say. 
But  I  don't  know  Winterman 's  line,"  the  doctor 
added.  "He  speaks  of  the  things  he  used  to  write 
merely  as  'stuff  that  wouldn't  sell.'  He  has  a  wonder- 
fully confidential  way  of  not  telling  one  things.  But  he 
says  he'll  have  to  do  something  for  his  living  as  soon 
[  198] 


v 
<. 


THE   LEGEND 

as  his  eyes  are  patched  up,  and  that  writing  is  the  only 
trade  he  knows.  The  queer  thing  is  that  he  seems  pretty 
sure  of  selling  now.  He  even  talked  of  buying  the 
bungalow  of  us,  with  an  acre  or  two  about  it." 

"The  bungalow?  What's  that?" 

"The  studio  down  by  the  shore  that  we  built  for 
Rowland  when  he  thought  he  meant  to  paint."  (How- 
land  Wade,  as  Bernald  knew,  had  experienced  various 
"calls.")  "Since  he's  taken  to  writing  nobody's  been 
near  the  place.  I  offered  it  to  Winterman,  and  he 
camps  there — cooks  his  meals,  does  his  own  house- 
keeping, and  never  comes  up  to  the  house  except  in 
the  evenings,  when  he  joins  us  on  the  verandah,  in 
the  dark,  and  smokes  while  my  mother  knits." 

"A  discreet  visitor,  eh?" 

"More  than  he  need  be.  My  mother  actually  wanted 
him  to  stay  on  in  the  house — in  her  pink  chintz  room. 
Think  of  it!  But  he  says  houses  smother  him.  I  take  it 
he's  lived  for  years  in  the  open." 

"In  the  open  where?" 

"I  can't  make  out,  except  that  it  was  somewhere  in 
the  East.  'East  of  everything — beyond  the  day-spring. 
In  places  not  on  the  map.'  That's  the  way  he  put  it; 
and  when  I  said:  'You've  been  an  explorer,  then?' 
he  smiled  in  his  beard,  and  answered:  'Yes;  that's  it — 
an  explorer.'  Yet  he  doesn't  strike  me  as  a  man  of  action : 
hasn't  the  hands  or  the  eyes." 
[  199] 


THE   LEGEND 

"  What  sort  of  hands  and  eyes  has  he  ? " 

Wade  reflected.  His  range  of  observation  was  not 
large,  but  within  its  limits  it  was  exact  and  could  give 
an  account  of  itself. 

"He's  worked  a  lot  with  his  hands,  but  that's  not 
what  they  were  made  for.  I  should  say  they  were  ex- 
traordinarily delicate  conductors  of  sensation.  And  his 
eye — his  eye  too.  He  hasn't  used  it  to  dominate  people : 
he  didn't  care  to.  He  simply  looks  through  'em  all  like 
windows.  Makes  me  feel  like  the  fellows  who  think 
they're  made  of  glass.  The  mitigating  circumstance  is 
that  he  seems  to  see  such  a  glorious  landscape  through 
me."  Wade  grinned  at  the  thought  of  serving  such  a 
purpose. 

"I  see.  I'll  come  on  Sunday  and  be  looked  through!" 
Bernald  cried. 

II 

BERNALD  came  on  two  successive  Sundays;  and  the 
second  time  he  lingered  till  the  Tuesday. 

"Here  he  comes!"  Wade  had  said,  the  first  evening, 
as  the  two  young  men,  with  Wade's  mother,  sat  on 
the  verandah,  with  the  Virginian  creeper  drawing,  be- 
tween the  arches,  its  black  arabesques  against  a  moon- 
lined  sky. 

Bernald  heard  a  step  on  the  gravel,  and  saw  the  red 
flit  of  a  cigar  through  the  shrubs.  Then  a  loosely-mov- 
[  200  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

ing  figure  obscured  the  patch  of  sky  between  the  creep- 
ers, and  the  spark  became  the  centre  of  a  dim  bearded 
face,  in  whfch  Bernald,  through  the  darkness,  discerned 
only  a  broad  white  gleam  of  forehead. 

It  was  the  young  man's  subsequent  impression  that 
Winterman  had  not  spoken  much  that  first  evening; 
at  any  rate,  Bernald  himself  remembered  chiefly  what 
the  Wades  had  said.  And  this  was  the  more  curious  be- 
cause he  had  come  for  the  purpose  of  studying  their 
visitor,  and  because  there  was  nothing  to  distract  his 
attention  in  Wade's  slow  phrases  or  his  mother's  art- 
less comments.  He  reflected  afterward  that  there  must 
have  been  a  mysteriously  fertilising  quality  in  the 
stranger's  silence:  it  had  brooded  over  their  talk  like  a 
rain-cloud  over  a  dry  country. 

Mrs.  Wade,  apparently  fearing  that  her  son  might 
have  given  Bernald  an  exaggerated  notion  of  their  visi- 
tor's importance,  had  hastened  to  qualify  it  before  the 
latter  appeared. 

"He's  not  what  you  or  Rowland  would  call  intel- 
lectual—  '  (Bernald  winced  at  the  coupling  of  the 
names) — "not  in  the  least  literary;  though  he  told 
Bob  he  used  to  write.  I  don't  think,  though,  it  could 
have  been  what  Howland  would  call  writing."  Mrs. 
Wade  always  named  her  younger  son  with  a  reverential 
drop  of  the  voice.  She  viewed  literature  much  as  she 
did  Providence,  as  an  inscrutable  mystery;  and  she 
[201  ] 


THE  LEGEND 

spoke  of  Rowland  as  a  dedicated  being,  set  apart 
to  perform  secret  rites  within  the  veil  of  the  sanctuary. 
"I  shouldn't  say  he  had  a  quick  mind,"  she  con- 
tinued, reverting  to  Winterman.  "Sometimes  he  hardly 
seems  to  follow  what  we're  saying.  But  he's  got 
such  sound  ideas — when  he  does  speak  he's  never 
silly.  And  clever  people  sometimes  are,  don't  you 
think  so?"  Bernald  sighed  an  unqualified  assent.  "And 
he's  so  capable.  The  other  day  something  went  wrong 
with  the  kitchen  range,  just  as  I  was  expecting  some 
friends  of  Bob's  for  dinner;  and  do  you  know,  when 
Mr.  Winterman  heard  we  were  in  trouble,  he  came 
and  took  a  look,  and  knew  at  once  what  to  do  ?  I  told 
him  it  was  a  dreadful  pity  he  wasn't  married ! " 

Close  on  midnight,  when  the  session  on  the  verandah 
ended,  and  the  two  young  men  were  strolling  down  to 
the  bungalow  at  Winterman's  side,  Bernald 's  mind  re- 
verted to  the  image  of  the  fertilising  cloud.  There  was 
something  brooding,  pregnant,  in  the  silent  presence 
beside  him:  he  had,  in  place  of  any  circumscribing 
personal  impression,  a  large  hovering  sense  of  manifold 
latent  meanings.  And  he  felt  a  thrill  of  relief  when, 
half-way  down  the  lawn,  Doctor  Bob  was  checked  by 
a  voice  that  called  him  back  to  the  telephone. 

"Now  I'll  be  with  him  alone!"  thought  Bernald, 
with  a  throb  like  a  lover's. 

[  202  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

Under  the  low  rafters  of  the  bungalow  Winterman 
had  to  grope  for  the  lamp  on  his  desk,  and  as  its  light 
struck  up  into  his  face  Bernald's  sense  of  the  rareness 
of  the  opportunity  increased.  He  couldn't  have  said 
why,  for  the  face,  with  its  bossed  forehead,  its  shabby 
greyish  beard  and  blunt  Socratic  nose,  made  no  direct 
appeal  to  the  eye.  It  seemed  rather  like  a  stage  on 
which  remarkable  things  might  be  enacted,  like  some 
shaggy  moorland  landscape  dependent  for  form  and 
expression  on  the  clouds  rolling  over  it,  and  the  bursts 
of  light  between ;  and  one  of  these  flashed  out  in  the 
smile  with  which  Winterman,  as  if  in  answer  to  his 
companion's  thought,  said  simply,  as  he  turned  to  fill 
his  pipe:  "Now  we'll  talk." 

So  he'd  known  all  along  that  they  hadn't  yet — and 
had  guessed  that,  with  Bernald,  one  might! 

The  young  man's  sudden  glow  of  pleasure  left  him 
fora  moment  unable  to  meet  the  challenge;  and  in  that 
moment  he  felt  the  sweep  of  something  winged  and 
summoning.  His  spirit  rose  to  it  with  a  rush,  but  just 
as  he  felt  himself  poised  between  the  ascending  pin- 
ions, the  door  opened  and  Bob  Wade  reappeared. 

"Too  bad!  I'm  so  sorry!  It  was  from  Rowland,  to 
say  he  can't  come  to-morrow  after  all."  The  doctor 
panted  out  his  news  with  honest  grief. 

"I  tried  my  best  to  pull  it  off  for  you,  Winterman; 
and  my  brother  wants  to  come — he's  keen  to  talk  to 
[  203  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

you  and  see  what  he  can  do.  But  you  see  he's  so 
tremendously  in  demand.  He'll  try  for  another  Sun- 
day later  on." 

Winterman  gave  an  untroubled  nod.  "Oh,  he'll  find 
me  here.  I  shall  work  my  time  out  slowly."  He  waved 
his  hand  toward  the  scattered  sheets  on  the  kitchen 
table  which  formed  his  desk. 

"Not  slowly  enough  to  suit  us,"  Wade  answered  hos- 
pitably. "Only,  if  Howland  could  have  come  he  might 
have  given  you  a  tip  or  two — put  you  on  the  right 
track — shown  you  how  to  get  in  touch  with  the  public." 

Winterman,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  lounged  against 
the  bare  pine  walls,  twisting  his  pipe  under  his  beard. 
"Does  your  brother  enjoy  the  privilege  of  that  con- 
tact?" he  questioned  gravely. 

Wade  stared  a  little.  "Oh,  of  course  Rowland's  not 
what  you'd  call  a  popular  writer;  he  despises  that  kind 
of  thing.  But  whatever  he  says  goes  with — well,  with 
the  chaps  who  count;  and  every  one  tells  me  he's  writ- 
ten the  book  on  Pellerin.  You  must  read  it  when  you 
get  back  your  eyes."  He  paused,  as  if  to  let  the  name 
sink  in,  but  Winterman  drew  at  his  pipe  with  a  blank 
face.  "You  must  have  heard  of  Pellerin,  I  suppose?" 
the  doctor  continued.  "I've  never  read  a  word  of  him 
myself:  he's  too  big  a  proposition  for  me.  But  one  can't 
escape  the  talk  about  him.  I  have  him  crammed  down 
my  throat  even  in  hospital.  The  internes  read  him  at 


THE   LEGEND 

the  clinics.  He  tumbles  out  of  the  nurses'  pockets.  The 
patients  keep  him  under  their  pillows.  Oh,  with  most 
of  them,  of  course,  it's  just  a  craze,  like  the  last  new 
game  or  puzzle:  they  don't  understand  him  in  the 
least.  Rowland  says  that  even  now,  twenty-five  years 
after  his  death,  and  with  his  books  in  everybody's 
hands,  there  are  not  twenty  people  who  really  under- 
stand Pellerin;  and  Rowland  ought  to  know,  if  anybody 
does.  He's — what's  their  great  word  ? — interpreted  him. 
You  must  get  Rowland  to  put  you  through  a  course  of 
Pellerin." 

And  as  the  young  men,  having  taken  leave  of  Winter- 
man,  retraced  their  way  across  the  lawn,  Wade  con- 
tinued to  develop  the  theme  of  his  brother's  accom- 
plishments. 

"I  wish  I  could  get  Rowland  to  take  an  interest  in 
Winterman:  this  is  the  third  Sunday  he's  chucked  us. 
Of  course  he  does  get  bored  writh  people  consulting  him 
about  their  writings — but  I  believe  if  he  could  only 
talk  to  Winterman  he'd  see  something  in  him,  as  we 
do.  And  it  would  be  such  a  god-send  to  the  poor  devil 
to  have  some  one  to  advise  him  about  his  work.  I'm 
going  to  make  a  desperate  effort  to  get  Rowland  here 
next  Sunday." 

It     was  then  that  Bernald  vowed  to  himself  that  he 

would  return  the  next  Sunday  at  all  costs.  He  hardly 

[  205  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

knew  whether  he  was  prompted  by  the  impulse  to 
shield  Winterman  from  Rowland  Wade's  ineptitude, 
or  by  the  desire  to  see  the  latter  abandon  himself  to 
the  full  shamelessness  of  its  display;  but  of  one  fact 
he  was  assured — and  that  was  of  the  existence  in  Win- 
terman  of  some  quality  which  would  provoke  Howland 
to  the  amplest  exercise  of  his  fatuity.  "  How  he'll  draw 
hirr* — how  he'll  draw  him!"  Bernald  chuckled,  with  a 
security  the  more  unaccountable  that  his  one  glimpse 
of  Winter-man  had  shown  the  latter  only  as  a  passive 
subject  for  observation;  and  he  felt  himself  avenged 
in  advance  for  the  injury  of  Howland  Wade's  ex- 
istence. 

Ill 

THAT  this  hope  was  to  be  frustrated  Bernald  learned 
from  Howland  Wade's  own  lips,  the  day  before  the 
two  young  men  were  to  have  met  at  Portchester. 

"I  can't  really,  my  dear  fellow,"  the  Interpreter 
lisped,  passing  a  polished  hand  over  the  faded  smooth- 
ness of  his  face.  "Oh,  an  authentic  engagement,  I 
assure  you:  otherwise,  to  oblige  old  Bob  I'd  submit 
cheerfully  to  looking  over  his  foundling's  literature. 
But  I'm  pledged  this  week  to  the  Pellerin  Society  of 
Kenosha:  I  had  a  hand  in  founding  it,  and  for  two 
years  now  they've  been  patiently  waiting  for  a  word 
from  me— the  Fiat  Lux,  so  to  speak.  You  see  it's  a 
[  206  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

ministry,  Bernald — I  assure  you,  I  look  upon  my  call- 
ing quite  religiously." 

As  Bernald  listened,  his  disappointment  gradually 
changed  to  relief.  Rowland,  on  trial,  always  turned 
out  to  be  too  insufferable,  and  the  pleasure  of  watching 
his  antics  was  invariably  lost  in  the  impulse  to  put  a 
sanguinary  end  to  them. 

"If  he'd  only  kept  his  beastly  pink  hands  off  Pel- 
lerin,"  Bernald  sighed,  thinking  for  the  hundredth 
time  of  the  thick  manuscript  condemned  to  perpetual 
incarceration  in  his  own  desk  by  the  publication  of 
Rowland's  "definitive"  work  on  the  great  man.  One 
couldn't,  after  Rowland  Wade,  expose  one's  self  to  the 
derision  of  writing  about  Pellerin:  the  eagerness  with 
which  Wade's  book  had  been  devoured  proved,  not 
that  the  public  had  enough  appetite  for  another,  but 
simply  that,  for  a  stomach  so  undiscriminating,  any- 
thing better  than  Wade  had  given  it  would  be  too 
good.  And  Bernald,  in  the  confidence  that  his  own 
work  was  open  to  this  objection,  had  stoically  locked 
it  up.  Yet  if  he  had  resigned  himself  to  the  fact  that 
Wade's  book  existed,  and  was  already  passing  into  the 
immortality  of  perpetual  republication,  he  could  not, 
after  repeated  trials,  adjust  himself  to  the  author's  talk 
about  Pellerin.  When  Wade  wrote  of  the  great  dead  he 
was  egregious,  but  in  conversation  he  was  familiar  and 
[  207  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

fond.  It  might  have  been  supposed  that  one  of  the 
beauties  of  Pellerin's  hidden  life  and  mysterious  taking 
off  would  have  been  to  guard  him  from  the  fingering  of 
anecdote;  but  biographers  like  Rowland  Wade  are 
born  to  rise  above  such  obstacles.  He  might  be  vague 
or  inaccurate  in  dealing  with  the  few  recorded  events 
of  his  subject's  life;  but  when  he  left  fact  for  conjecture 
no  one  had  a  firmer  footing.  Whole  chapters  in  his  vol- 
ume were  constructed  in  the  conditional  mood  and 
made  up  of  hypothetical  detail;  and  in  talk,  by  the  very 
law  of  the  process,  hypothesis  became  affirmation,  and 
he  was  ready  to  tell  you  confidentially  the  exact  circum- 
stances of  Pellerin's  death,  and  of  the  "distressing 
incident"  leading  up  to  it.  Bernald  himself  not  only 
questioned  the  form  under  which  this  incident  was 
shaping  itself  before  posterity,  but  the  very  fact  of  its 
occurrence:  he  had  never  been  able  to  discover  any 
break  in  the  dense  cloud  enveloping  Pellerin's  end.  He 
had  gone  away — that  was  all  that  any  of  them  knew: 
he  who  had  so  little,  at  any  time,  been  with  them  or 
of  them;  and  his  going  had  so  s  ightly  stirred  the 
public  consciousness  that  the  news  of  his  death,  lacon- 
ically imparted  from  afar,  had  dropped  unheeded  into 
tne  universal  scrap-basket,  to  be  long  afterward  fished 
out,  with  all  its  details  missing,  when  some  enquiring 
spirit  first  became  aware,  by  chance  encounter  with  a 
[  208  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

volume  in  a  London  book-stall,  not  only  that  such  a 
man  as  John  Pellerin  had  died,  but  that  he  had  ever 
lived,  or  written. 

It  need  hardly  be  noted  that  Howland  Wade  had  not 
been  the  pioneer  in  question:  his  had  been  the  safer 
part  of  swelling  the  chorus  when  it  rose,  and  gradually 
drowning  the  other  voices  by  his  own.  He  had  pitched 
his  note  so  screamingly,  and  held  it  so  long,  that  he 
was  now  the  accepted  authority  on  Pellerin,  not  only 
in  the  land  which  had  given  birth  to  his  genius  but 
in  the  Europe  which  had  first  acclaimed  it;  and  it  was 
the  central  point  of  pain  in  Bernald's  sense  of  the  sit- 
uation that  a  man  who  had  so  yearned  for  silence  should 
have  his  grave  piped  over  by  such  a  voice  as  Wade's. 

Bernald's  talk  with  the  Interpreter  had  revived  this 
ache  to  the  momentary  exclusion  of  other  sensations; 
and  he  was  still  sore  with  it  when,  the  next  afternoon, 
he  arrived  at  Portchester  for  his  second  Sunday  with 
the  Wades. 

At  the  station  he  had  the  surprise  of  seeing  Winter- 
man's  face  on  the  platform,  and  of  hearing  from  him 
that  Doctor  Bob  had  been  called  away  to  assist  at  an 
operation  in  a  distant  town. 

"Mrs.  Wade  wanted  to  put  you  off,  but  I  believe 
the  message  came  too  late;  so  she  sent  me  down  to 
break  the  news  to  you,"  said  Winterman,  holding  out 
his  hand. 

[  209  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

Perhaps  because  they  were  the  first  conventional 
words  that  Bernald  had  heard  him  speak,  the  young 
man  was  struck  by  the  quality  his  intonation  gave  them. 

"She  wanted  to  send  a  carriage,"  Winterman  added, 
"but  I  told  her  we'd  walk  back  through  the  woods." 
He  looked  at  Bernald  with  a  kindliness  that  flushed 
the  young  man  with  pleasure. 

"Are  you  strong  enough?  It's  not  too  far?" 

"Oh,  no.  I'm  pulling  myself  together.  Getting  back 
to  work  is  the  slowest  part  of  the  business:  not  on  ac- 
count of  my  eyes — I  can  use  them  now,  though  not 
for  reading;  but  some  of  the  links  between  things  are 
missing.  It's  a  kind  of  broken  spectrum  .  .  .  here,  that 
boy  will  look  after  your  bag." 

The  walk  through  the  woods  remained  in  Bernald 's 
memory  as  an  enchanted  hour.  He  used  the  word 
literally,  as  descriptive  of  the  way  in  which  Winterman's 
contact  changed  the  face  of  things,  or  perhaps  restored 
them  to  their  deeper  meanings.  And  the  scene  they 
traversed — one  of  those  little  untended  woods  that  still, 
in  America,  fringe  the  tawdry  skirts  of  civilisation — 
acquired,  as  a  background  to  Winterman,  the  hush 
of  a  spot  aware  of  transcendent  visitings.  Did  he  talk, 
or  did  he  make  Bernald  talk?  The  young  man  never 
knew.  He  recalled  only  a  sense  of  lightness  and  libera- 
tion, as  if  the  hard  walls  of  individuality  had  melted, 
and  he  were  merged  in  the  poet's  deeper  interfusion, 
[  210  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

yet  without  losing  the  least  sharp  edge  of  self.  This 
general  impression  resolved  itself  afterward  into  the 
sense  of  Winterman's  wide  elemental  range.  His  thought 
encircled  things  like  the  horizon  at  sea.  He  didn't, 
as  it  happened,  touch  on  lofty  themes — Bernald  was 
gleefully  aware  that,  to  Rowland  Wade,  their  talk 
would  hardly  have  been  Talk  at  all — but  Wintennan's 
mind,  applied  to  lowly  topics,  was  like  a  lens  that 
brought  out  microscopic  delicacies  and  differences. 

The  lack  of  Sunday  trains  kept  Doctor  Bob  for  two 
days  on  the  scene  of  his  surgical  duties,  and  during 
those  two  days  Bernald  seized  every  moment  of  com- 
munion with  his  friend's  guest.  Winterman,  as  Wade 
had  said,  was  reticent  concerning  his  personal  affairs,  or 
rather  concerning  the  practical  and  material  questions 
to  which  the  term  is  generally  applied.  But  it  was  evi- 
dent that,  in  Winterman's  case,  the  usual  classification 
must  be  reversed,  and  that  the  discussion  of  ideas 
carried  one  much  farther  into  his  intimacy  than 
familiarity  with  the  incidents  of  his  life. 

"That's  exactly  what  Rowland  Wade  and  his  tribe 
have  never  understood  about  Pellerin:  that  it's  much 
less  important  to  know  how,  or  even  why,  he  disapp — 

Bernald  pulled  himself  up  with  a  jerk,  and  turned 
to  look  full  at  his  companion.  It  was  late  on  the  Mon- 
day evening,  and  the  two  men,  after  an  hour's  chat 
on  the  verandah  to  the  tune  of  Mrs.  Wade's  knitting- 
[211] 


THE   LEGEND 

needles,  had  bidden  their  hostess  good-night  and  strolled 
back  to  the  bungalow  together. 

"Come  and  have  a  pipe  before  you  turn  in,"  Winter- 
man  had  said;  and  they  had  sat  on  together  till  mid- 
night, with  the  door  of  the  bungalow  open  on  the 
heaving  moonlit  bay,  and  summer  insects  bumping 
against  the  chimney  of  the  lamp.  Winterman  had  just 
bent  down  to  refill  his  pipe  from  the  jar  on  the  table, 
and  Bernald,  jerking  about  to  catch  him  in  the  circle  of 
lamplight,  sat  speechless,  staring  at  a  fact  that  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  substituted  itself  for  Winterman 's 
face,  or  rather  to  have  taken  on  its  features. 

"  No,  they  never  saw  that  Pellerin's  ideas  were  Pel- 
lerin.  .  ."He  continued  to  stare  at  Winterman.  "Just 
as  this  man 's  ideas  are — why,  are  Pellerin ! " 

The  thought  uttered  itself  in  a  kind  of  inner  shout, 
and  Bernald  started  upright  with  the  violent  impact 
of  his  conclusion.  Again  and  again  in  the  last  forty- 
eight  hours  he  had  exclaimed  to  himself:  "This  is  as 
good  as  Pellerin."  Why  hadn't  he  said  till  now:  "This 
is  Pellerin"?  .  .  Surprising  as  the  answer  was,  he  had 
no  choice  but  to  take  it.  He  hadn't  said  so  simply  be- 
cause Winterman  was  better  than  Pellerin — that  there 
was  so  much  more  of  him,  so  to  speak.  Yes;  but— it 
came  to  Bernald  in  a  flash— wouldn't  there  by  this 
time  have  been  any  amount  more  of  Pellerin  ?  .  .  The 
young  man  felt  actually  dizzy  with  the  thought.  That 
[  212  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

was  it — there  was  the  solution  of  the  problem!  This 
man  was  Pellerin,  and  more  than  Pellerin!  It  was 
so  fantastic  and  yet  so  unanswerable  that  he  burst 
into  a  sudden  laugh. 

Winterman,  at  the  same  moment,  brought  his  palm 
down  with  a  crash  on  the  pile  of  manuscript  cover- 
ing the  desk. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Bernald  cried. 

"My  match  wasn't  out.  In  another  minute  the  de- 
struction of  the  library  of  Alexandria  would  have  been 
a  trifle  compared  to  what  you'd  have  seen."  Winter- 
man, with  his  large  deep  laugh,  shook  out  the  smoulder- 
ing sheets.  "And  I  should  have  been  a  pensioner  on 
Doctor  Bob  the  Lord  knows  how  much  longer!" 

Bernald  looked  at  him  intently.  "  You've  really  got 
going  again  ?  The  thing's  actually  getting  into  shape  ?  " 

"This  particular  thing  is  in  shape.  I  drove  at  it  hard 
all  last  week,  thinking  our  friend's  brother  would  be 
down  on  Sunday,  and  might  look  it  over." 

Bernald  had  to  repress  the  tendency  to  another  wild 
laugh. 

"Rowland — you  meant  to  show  Howland  what 
you've  done?" 

Winterman,  looming  against  the  moonlight,  slowly 
turned  a  dusky  shaggy  head  toward  him. 

"Isn't  it  a  good  thing  to  do?" 

Bernald  wavered,  torn  between  loyalty  to  his  friends 
[  213  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

and  the  grotesqueness  of  answering  in  the  affirmative. 
After  all,  it  was  none  of  his  business  to  furnish  Winter- 
man  with  an  estimate  of  Hpwland  Wade. 

"Well,  you  see,  you've  never  told  me  what  your  line 
is,"  he  answered,  temporising. 

"No,  because  nobody's  ever  told  me.  It's  exactly 
what  I  want  to  find  out,"  said  the  other  genially. 

"And  you  expect  Wade ?" 

"Why,  I  gathered  from  our  good  Doctor  that  it's 
his  trade.  Doesn't  he  explain — interpret?" 

"In  his  own  domain — which  is  Pellerinism." 

Winterman  gazed  out  musingly  upon  the  moon- 
touched  dusk  of  waters.  "And  what  is  Pellerinism?" 
he  asked. 

Bernald  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  cry.  "Ah,  I  don't 
know — but  you're  Pellerin ! " 

They  stood  for  a  minute  facing  each  other,  among 
the  uncertain  swaying  shadows  of  the  room,  with  the 
sea  breathing  through  it  as  something  immense  and 
inarticulate  breathed  through  young  Bernald 's  thoughts; 
then  Winterman  threw  up  his  arms  with  a  humorous 
gesture. 

"Don't  shoot!"  he  said. 


[  214  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

IV 

DAWN  found  them  there,  and  the  sun  laid  its  beams 
on  the  rough  floor  of  the  bungalow,  before  either 
of  the  men  was  conscious  of  the  passage  of  time. 
Bernald,  vaguely  trying  to  define  his  own  state  in 
retrospect,  could  only  phrase  it:  "I  floated... 
floated  .  .  ." 

The  gist  of  fact  at  the  core  of  the  extraordinary 
experience  was  simply  that  John  Pellerin,  twenty-five 
years  earlier,  had  voluntarily  disappeared,  causing  the 
rumour  of  his  death  to  be  reported  to  an  inattentive 
world ;  and  that  now  he  had  come  back  to  see  what  that 
world  had  made  of  him. 

"You'll  hardly  believe  it  of  me;  I  hardly  believe  it  of 
myself;  but  I  went  away  in  a  rage  of  disappointment, 
of  wounded  pride — no,  vanity!  I  don't  know  which  cut 
deepest — the  sneers  or  the  silence — but  between  them, 
there  wasn't  an  inch  of  me  that  wasn't  raw.  I  had  just 
the  one  thing  in  me:  the  message,  the  cry,  the  revela- 
tion. But  nobody  saw  and  nobody  listened.  Nobody 
wanted  what  I  had  to  give.  I  was  like  a  poor  devil 
of  a  tramp  looking  for  shelter  on  a  bitter  night,  in 
a  town  with  every  door  bolted  and  all  the  windows 
dark.  And  suddenly  I  felt  that  the  easiest  thing  would 
be  to  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep  in  the  snow.  Perhaps 
I'd  a  vague  notion  that  if  they  found  me  there  at  day- 
[215  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

light,  frozen  stiff,  the  pathetic  spectacle  might  pro- 
duce a  reaction,  a  feeling  of  remorse.  .  .  So  I  took  care 
to  be  found!  Well,  a  good  many  thousand  people  die 
every  day  on  the  face  of  the  globe;  and  I  soon  dis- 
covered that  I  was  simply  one  of  the  thousands;  and 
when.  I  made  that  discovery  I  really  died — and  stayed 
dead  a  year  or  two.  .  .  When  I  came  to  life  again  I  was 
off  on  the  under  side  of  the  world,  in  regions  unaware 
of  what  we  know  as  'the  public.'  Have  you  any  notion 
how  it  shifts  the  point  of  view  to  wake  under  ne\v  con- 
stellations? I  advise  any  who's  been  in  love  with  a 
woman  under  Cassiopeia  to  go  and  think  about  her 
under  the  Southern  Cross.  .  .  It's  the  only  way  to  tell 
the  pivotal  truths  from  the  others.  .  .  I  didn't  believe 
in  my  theory  any  less — there  was  my  triumph  and  my 
vindication!  It  held  out,  resisted,  measured  itself  with 
the  stars.  But  I  didn't  care  a  snap  of  my  finger  whether 
anybody  else  believed  in  it,  or  even  knew  it  had  been 
formulated.  It  escaped  out  of  my  books — my  poor 
still-born  books — like  Psyche  from  the  chrysalis,  and 
soared  away  into  the  blue,  and  lived  there.  I  knew  then 
how  it  frees  an  idea  to  be  ignored;  how  apprehension 
circumscribes  and  deforms  it.  .  .  Once  I'd  learned  that, 
it  was  easy  enough  to  turn  to  and  shift  for  myself.  I  was 
sure  now  that  my  idea  would  live:  the  good  ones  are 
self-supporting.  And  meanwhile  /  had  to  learn  to  be 
so;  and  I  tried  my  hand  at  a  number  of  things  .  .  .  ad- 
[216] 


THE   LEGEND 

venturous,  menial,  commercial.  .  .  It's  not  a  bad  thing 
for  a  man  to  have  to  live  his  life — and  we  nearly  all 
manage  to  dodge  it.  Our  first  round  with  the  Sphinx 
may  strike  something  out  of  us — a  book  or  a  picture 
or  a  symphony;  and  we're  amazed  at  our  feat,  and  go 
on  letting  that  first  work  breed  others,  as  some  animal 
forms  reproduce  each  other  without  renewed  fertilisa- 
tion. So  there  we  are,  committed  to  our  first  guess  at 
the  riddle;  and  our  works  look  as  like  as  successive 
impressions  of  the  same  plate,  each  with  the  lines  a 
little  fainter;  whereas  they  ought  to  be — if  we  touch 
earth  between  times — as  different  from  each  other  as 
those  other  creatures — jelly-fish,  aren't  they,  of  a  kind  ? 
— where  successive  generations  produce  new  forms,  and 
it  takes  a  zoologist  to  see  the  hidden  likeness.  .  . 

"Well,  I  proved  my  first  guess,  off  there  in  the  wilds, 
and  it  lived,  and  grew,  and  took  care  of  itself.  And  I 
said,  'Some  day  it  will  make  itself  heard;  but  by  that 
time  my  atoms  will  have  waltzed  into  a  new  pattern.' 
Then,  in  Cashmere  one  day,  I  met  a  fellow  in  a  caravan, 
with  a  dog-eared  book  in  his  pocket.  He  said  he  never 
stirred  without  it — wanted  to  know  where  I'd  been, 
never  to  have  heard  of  it.  It  was  my  guess — in  its  twen- 
tieth edition!  .  .  The  globe  spun  round  at  that,  and  all 
of  a  sudden  I  was  under  the  old  stars.  That's  the  way 
it  happens  when  the  ballast  of  vanity  shifts!  I'd  lived 
a  third  of  a  life  out  there,  unconscious  of  human  opin- 
[217] 


THE   LEGEND 

ion — because  I  supposed  it  was  unconscious  of  me. 
But  now — now!  Oh,  it  was  different.  I  wanted  to  know 
what  they  said.  .  .  Not  exactly  that,  either:  I  wanted  to 
know  what  I'd  made  tfiem  say.  There's  a  difference.  .  . 
And  here  I  am,"  said  John  Pellerin,  with  a  pull  at 
his  pipe. 

So  much  Bernald  retained  of  his  companion's  actual 
narrative;  the  rest  was  swept  away  under  the  tide  of 
wonder  that  rose  and  submerged  him  as  Pellerin — at 
some  indefinitely  later  stage  of  their  talk — picked  up 
his  manuscript  and  began  to  read.  Bernald  sat  opposite, 
his  elbows  propped  on  the  table,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
swaying  waters  outside,  from  which  the  moon  gradually 
faded,  leaving  them  to  make  a  denser  blackness  in  the 
night.  As  Pellerin  read,  this  density  of  blackness — 
which  never  for  a  moment  seemed  inert  or  unalive — 
was  attenuated  by  imperceptible  degrees,  till  a  grey- 
ish pallor  replaced  it;  then  the  pallor  breathed  and 
brightened,  and  suddenly  dawn  was  on  the  sea. 

Something  of  the  same  nature  went  on  in  the  young 
man's  mind  while  he  watched  and  listened.  He  was 
conscious  of  a  gradually  withdrawing  light,  of  an  inter- 
val of  obscurity  full  of  the  stir  of  invisible  forces,  and 
then  of  the  victorious  flush  of  day.  And  as  the  light 
rose,  he  saw  how  far  he  had  travelled  and  what  won- 
ders the  night  had  prepared.  Pellerin  had  been  right 
in  saying  that  his  first  idea  had  survived,  had  borne  the 
[  218  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

test  of  time;  but  he  had  given  his  hearer  no  hint  of  the 
extent  to  which  it  had  been  enlarged  and  modified,  of 
the  fresh  implications  it  now  unfolded.  In  a  brief  flash 
of  retrospection  Bernald  saw  the  earlier  books  dwindle 
and  fall  into  their  place  as  mere  precursors  of  this 
fuller  revelation;  then,  with  a  leap  of  rage,  he  pictured 
Howland  Wade's  pink  hands  on  the  new  treasure,  and 
his  prophetic  feet  upon  the  lecture  platform. 


"!T  won't  do — oh,  he  let  him  down  as  gently  as  pos- 
sible; but  it  appears  it  simply  won't  do." 

Doctor  Bob  imparted  the  ineluctable  fact  to  Bernald 
while  the  two  men,  accidentally  meeting  at  their  club 
a  few  nights  later,  sat  together  over  the  dinner  they  had 
immediately  agreed  to  share. 

Bernald  had  left  Portchester  the  morning  after  his 
strange  discovery,  and  he  and  Bob  Wade  had  not 
seen  each  other  since.  And  now  Bernald,  moved  by  an 
irresistible  instinct  of  postponement,  had  waited  for 
his  companion  to  bring  up  Winterman's  name,  and 
had  even  executed  several  conversational  diversions  in 
the  hope  of  delaying  its  mention.  For  how  could  one 
talk  of  Winterman  with  the  thought  of  Pellerin  swell- 
ing one's  breast  ? 

"Yes;  the  very  day  Howland  got  back  from  Kenosha 
[219] 


THE   LEGEND 

I  brought  the  manuscript  to  town,  and  got  him  to  read 
it.  And  yesterday  evening  I  nailed  him,  and  dragged 
an  answer  out  of  him." 

"Then  Howland  hasn't  seen  Winterman  yet?" 

"No.  He  said:  'Before  you  let  him  loose  on  me  I'll 
go  over  the  stuff,  and  see  if  it's  at  all  worth  while.'" 

Bernald  drew  a  freer  breath.  "And  he  found  it 
wasn't?" 

"Between  ourselves,  he  found  it  was  of  no  account 
at  all.  Queer,  isn't  it,  when  the  man  .  .  .  but  of  course 
literature's  another  proposition.  Howland  says  it's  one 
of  the  cases  where  an  idea  might  seem  original  and 
striking  if  one  didn't  happen  to  be  able  to  trace  its 
descent.  And  this  is  straight  out  of  bosh — by  Pellerin.  .  . 
Yes:  Pellerin.  It  seems  that  everything  in  the  article 
that  isn't  pure  nonsense  is  just  Pellerinism.  Howland 
thinks  Winterman  must  have  been  tremendously  struck 
by  Pellerin's  writings,  and  have  lived  too  much  out 
of  the  world  to  know  that  they've  become  the  text- 
books of  modern  thought.  Otherwise,  of  course,  he'd 
have  taken  more  trouble  to  disguise  his  plagiarisms." 

"I  see,"  Bernald  mused.  "Yet  you  say  there  is  an 
original  element  ?  " 

"Yes;  but  unluckily  it's  no  good." 

"It's  not — conceivably — in  any  sense  a  development 
of  Pellerin's  idea:  a  logical  step  farther  ?" 

"Logical  ?  Howland  says  it's  twaddle  at  white  heat." 


THE   LEGEND 

Bernald  sat  silent,  divided  between  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  the  Interpreter  rush  upon  his  fate,  and 
the  despair  of  knowing  that  the  state  of  mind  he 
represented  was  indestructible.  Then  both  emotions 
were  swept  away  on  a  wave  of  pure  joy,  as  he  reflected 
that  now,  at  last,  Rowland  Wade  had  given  him  back 
John  Pellerin. 

The  possession  was  one  he  did  not  mean  to  part 
with  lightly;  and  the  dread  of  its  being  torn  from  him 
constrained  him  to  extraordinary  precautions. 

"You've  told  Winterman,  I  suppose?  How  did  he 
take  it?" 

"Why,  unexpectedly,  as  he  does  most  things.  You 
can  never  tell  which  way  he'll  jump.  I  thought  he'd 
take  a  high  tone,  or  else  laugh  it  off;  but  he  did  neither. 
He  seemed  awfully  cast  down.  I  wished  myself  well 
out  of  the  job  when  I  saw  how  cut  up  he  was." 

Bernald  thrilled  at  the  words.  Pellerin  had  shared 
his  own  pang,  then — the  "old  woe  of  the  world"  at 
the  perpetuity  of  human  dulness! 

"But  what  did  he  say  to  the  charge  of  plagiarism — 
if  you  made  it  ? " 

"Oh,  I  told  him  straight  out  what  Rowland  said. 
I  thought  it  fairer.  And  his  answer  to  that  was  the  rum- 
mest  part  of  all." 

"What  was  it?"  Bernald  questioned,  with  a  tre- 
mor. 


THE   LEGEND 

"He  said:  'That's  queer,  for  I've  never  read  Pel- 
lerin.'" 

Bernald  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Well — and  I  suppose 
you  believed  him  ?  " 

"I  believed  him,  because  I  know  him.  But  the  public 
won't — the  critics  won't.  And  if  the  plagiarism  is  a 
pure  coincidence  it's  just  as  bad  for  him  as  if  it  were  a 
straight  steal — isn't  it?" 

Bernald  sighed  his  acquiescence. 

"It  bothers  me  awfully,"  Wade  continued,  knitting 
his  kindly  brows,  "because  I  could  see  what  a  blow  it 
was  to  him.  He's  got  to  earn  his  living,  and  I  don't 
suppose  he  knows  how  to  do  anything  but  write.  At 
his  age  it's  hard  to  start  fresh.  I  put  that  to  Rowland — 
asked  him  if  there  wasn't  a  chance  he  might  do  better  if 
he  only  had  a  little  encouragement.  I  can't  help  feeling 
he's  got  the  essential  thing  in  him.  But  of  course  I'm 
no  judge  when  it  comes  to  books.  And  Rowland  says 
it  would  be  cruel  to  give  him  any  hope."  Wade  paused, 
turned  his  wineglass  about  under  a  meditative  stare, 
and  then  leaned  across  the  table  toward  Bernald. 
"Look  here — do  you  know  what  I've  proposed  to 
Winterman?  That  he  should  come  to  town  with  me 
to-morrow  and  go  in  the  evening  to  hear  Rowland 
lecture  to  the  Uplift  Club.  They're  to  meet  at  Mrs. 
Beecher  Bain's,  and  Rowland  is  to  repeat  the  lecture 
that  he  gave  the  other  day  before  the  Pellerin  Society 
[  222  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

at  Kenosha.  It  will  give  Winterman  a  chance  to  get 
some  notion  of  what  Pellerin  was  :  he'll  get  it  much 
straighter  from  Rowland  than  if  he  tried  to  plough 
through  Pellerin's  books.  And  then  afterward — as  if 
accidentally — I  thought  I  might  bring  him  and  How- 
land  together.  If  Rowland  could  only  see  him  and  hear 
him  talk,  there's  no  knowing  what  might  come  of  it. 
He  couldn't  help  feeling  the  man's  force,  as  we  do; 
and  he  might  give  him  a  pointer — tell  him  what  line 
to  take.  Anyhow,  it  would  please  Winterman,  and  take 
the  edge  off  his  disappointment.  I  saw  that  as  soon  as 
I  proposed  it." 

"Some  one  who's  never  heard  of  Pellerin  ?" 

Mrs.  Beecher  Bain,  large,  smiling,  diffuse,  reached 
out  through  the  incoming  throng  on  her  threshold  to 
detain  Bernald  with  the  question  as  he  was  about  to 
move  past  her  in  the  wake  of  his  companion. 

"Oh,  keep  straight  on,  Mr.  Winterman!"  she  inter- 
rupted herself  to  call  after  the  latter.  "Into  the  back 
drawing-room,  please!  And  remember,  you're  to  sit 
next  to  me — in  the  corner  on  the  left,  close  under  the 
platform." 

She  renewed  her  interrogative  clutch  on  Bernald 's 

sleeve.  "Most  curious!  Doctor  Wade  has  been  telling 

me  all  about  your  friend — how   remarkable  you  all 

think  him.  And  it's  actually  true  that  he's  never  heard 

[  223  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

of  Pellerin  ?  Of  course  as  soon  as  Doctor  Wade  told  me 
me  that ,  I  said  '  Bring  him ! '  It  will  be  so  extraordinarily 
interesting  to  watch  the  first  impression. — Yes,  do  follow 
him,  dear  Mr.  Bernald,  and  be  sure  that  you  and  he 
secure  the  seats  next  to  me.  Of  course  Alice  Fosdick 
insists  on  being  with  us.  She  was  wild  with  excitement 
when  I  told  her  she  was  to  meet  some  one  who'd  never 
heard  of  Pellerin!" 

On  the  indulgent  lips  of  Mrs.  Beecher  Bain  conjec- 
ture speedily  passed  into  affirmation;  and  as  Bernald 's 
companion,  broad  and  shaggy  in  his  visible  new  even- 
ing clothes,  moved  down  the  length  of  the  crowded 
rooms,  he  was  already,  to  the  ladies  drawing  aside 
their  skirts  to  let  him  pass,  the  interesting  Huron  of 
the  fable. 

How  far  he  was  aware  of  the  character  ascribed  to 
him  it  was  impossible  for  Bernald  to  discover.  He  was 
as  unconscious  as  a  tree  or  a  cloud,  and  his  observer  had 
never  known  any  one  so  alive  to  human  contacts  and 
yet  so  secure  from  them.  But  the  scene  was  playing 
such  a  lively  tune  on  Bernald's  own  sensibilities  that 
for  the  moment  he  could  not  adjust  himself  to  the 
probable  effect  it  produced  on  his  companion.  The 
young  man,  of  late,  had  made  but  rare  appearances  in 
the  group  of  which  Mrs.  Beecher  Bain  was  one  of  the 
most  indefatigable  hostesses,  and  the  Uplift  Club  the 
chief  medium  of  expression.  To  a  critic,  obliged  by  his 
[  224  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

trade  to  cultivate  convictions,  it  was  the  essence  of 
luxury  to  leave  them  at  home  in  his  hours  of  ease;  and 
Bernald  gave  his  preference  to  circles  in  which  less 
finality  of  judgment  prevailed,  and  it  was  consequently 
less  embarrassing  to  be  caught  without  an  opinion. 

But  in  his  fresher  days  he  had  known  the  spell  of 
the  Uplift  Club  and  the  thrill  of  moving  among  the 
Emancipated;  and  he  felt  an  odd  sense  of  rejuvenation 
as  he  looked  at  the  rows  of  faces  packed  about  the 
embowered  platform  from  which  Rowland  Wade  was 
presently  to  hand  down  the  eternal  verities.  Many  of 
these  countenances  belonged  to  the  old  days,  when  the 
gospel  of  Pellerin  was  unknown,  and  had  required  con- 
siderable intellectual  courage  to  avow  one's  acceptance 
of  the  very  doctrines  he  had  since  demolished.  The 
latter  moral  revolution  seemed  to  have  been  accepted 
as  submissively  as  a  change  in  hair-dressing;  and  it 
even  struck  Bernald  that,  in  the  case  of  many  of  the 
assembled  ladies,  their  convictions  were  rather  newer 
than  their  clothes. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  examples  of  this  readiness 
of  adaptation  was  actually,  in  the  person  of  Miss  Alice 
Fosdick,  brushing  his  elbow  with  exotic  amulets,  and 
enveloping  him  in  Arabian  odours,  as  she  leaned  for- 
ward to  murmur  her  sympathetic  sense  of  the  situation. 
Miss  Fosdick,  who  was  one  of  the  most  advanced  ex- 
ponents of  Pellerinism,  had  large  eyes  and  a  plaintive 
[  225  ] 


THE  LEGEND 

mouth,  and  Bernald  had  always  fancied  that  she  might 
have  been  pretty  if  she  had  not  been  perpetually  ex- 
plaining things. 

"Yes,  I  know — Isabella  Bain  told  me  all  about  him. 
(He  can't  hear  us,  can  he  ?)  And  I  wonder  if  you  realise 
how  remarkably  interesting  it  is  that  we  should  have 
such  an  opportunity  now — I  mean  the  opportunity  to 
see  the  impression  of  Pellerinism  on  a  perfectly  fresh 
mind.  (You  must  introduce  him  as  soon  as  the  lecture's 
over.)  I  explained  that  to  Isabella  as  soon  as  she  showed 
me  Doctor  Wade's  note.  Of  course  you  see  why,  don't 
you  ? "  Bernald  made  a  faint  motion  of  acquiescence, 
which  she  instantly  swept  aside.  "At  least  I  think  I 
can  make  you  see  why.  (If  you're  sure  he  can't  hear  ?) 
Why,  it's  just  this — Pellerinism  is  in  danger  of  becoming 
a  truism.  Oh,  it's  an  awful  thing  to  say!  But  then  I'm 
not  afraid  of  saying  awful  things!  I  rather  believe  it's 
my  mission.  What  I  mean  is,  that  we're  getting  into 
the  way  of  taking  Pellerin  for  granted — as  we  do  the 
air  we  breathe.  We  don't  sufficiently  lead  our  conscious 
life  in  him — we're  gradually  letting  him  become  sub- 
liminal." She  swayed  closer  to  the  young  man,  and  he 
saw  that  she  was  making  a  graceful  attempt  to  throw 
her  explanatory  net  over  his  companion,  who,  evading 
Mrs.  Bain's  hospitable  signal,  had  cautiously  wedged 
himself  into  a  seat  between  Bernald  and  the  wall. 

"Did  you  hear  what  I  was  saying,  Mr.  Winterman  ? 
[  226  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

(Yes,  I  know  who  you  are,  of  course!)  Oh,  well,  I  don't 
really  mind  if  you  did.  I  was  talking  about  you — about 
you  and  Pellerin.  I  was  explaining  to  Mr.  Bernald  that 
what  we  need  at  this  very  minute  is  a  Pellerin  revival; 
and  we  need  some  one  like  you — to  whom  his  message 
comes  as  a  wonderful  new  interpretation  of  life — to 
lead  the  revival,  and  rouse  us  out  of  our  apathy.  .  . 

"You  see,"  she  went  on  winningly,  "it's  not  only  the 
big  public  that  needs  it  (of  course  their  Pellerin  isn't 
ours!)  It's  we,  his  disciples,  his  interpreters,  we  who 
discovered  him  and  gave  him  to  the  world — we,  the 
Chosen  People,  the  Custodians  of  the  Sacred  Books,  as 
Rowland  Wade  calls  us — it's  we  who  are  in  perpetual 
danger  of  sinking  back  into  the  old  stagnant  ideals, 
and  practising  the  Seven  Deadly  Virtues;  it's  we  who 
need  to  count  our  mercies,  and  realise  anew  what  he's 
done  for  us,  and  what  we  ought  to  do  for  him!  And 
it's  for  that  reason  that  I  urged  Mr.  Wade  to  speak 
here,  in  the  very  inner  sanctuary  of  Pellerinism,  ex- 
actly as  he  would  speak  to  the  uninitiated — to  repeat, 
simply,  his  Kenosha  lecture,  'What  Pellerinism  Means'; 
and  we  ought  all,  I  think,  to  listen  to  him  with  the  hearts 
of  little  children — just  as  you  will,  Mr.  Winterman — as 
if  he  were  telling  us  new  things,  and  we — 

"Alice,    dear —          Mrs.    Bain    murmured    with    a 
warning  gesture;  and    Rowland  Wade,  emerging  be- 
tween the  palms,  took  the  centre  of  the  platform. 
[  227  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

A  pang  of  commiseration  shot  through  Bernald  as 
he  saw  him  there,  so  innocent  and  so  exposed.  His 
plump  pulpy  body,  which  made  his  evening  dress 
fall  into  intimate  and  wrapper-like  folds,  was  like  a 
wide  surface  spread  to  the  shafts  of  irony;  and  the 
ripples  of  his  voice  seemed  to  enlarge  the  vulnerable 
area  as  he  leaned  forward,  poised  on  confidential 
finger-tips,  to  say  persuasively:  "Let  me  try  to  tell  you 
what  Pellerinism  means." 

Bernald  moved  restlessly  in  his  seat.  He  had  the 
sense  of  being  a  party  to  something  not  wholly  honour- 
able. He  ought  not  to  have  come;  he  ought  not  to  have 
let  his  companion  come.  Yet  how  could  he  have  done 
otherwise?  John  Pellerin's  secret  was  his  own.  As 
long  as  he  chose  to  remain  John  Winterman  it  was 
no  one's  business  to  gainsay  him;  and  Bernald 's 
scruples  were  really  justifiable  only  in  respect  of  his 
own  presence  on  the  scene.  But  even  in  this  respect 
he  ceased  to  feel  them  as  soon  as  Howland  Wade  began 
to  speak. 

VI 

IT  had  been  arranged  that  Pellerin,  after  the  meeting 
of  the  Uplift  Club,  should  join  Bernald  at  his  rooms 
and  spend  the  night  there,  instead  of  returning  to 
Portchester.  The  plan  had  been  eagerly  elaborated  by 
the  young  man,  but  he  had  been  unprepared  for  the 
[  228  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

alacrity  with  which  his  wonderful  friend  accepted  it.  He 
was  beginning  to  see  that  it  was  a  part  of  Pellerin's  won- 
derfulness  to  fall  in,  quite  simply  and  naturally,  with 
any  arrangements  made  for  his  convenience,  or  tending 
to  promote  the  convenience  of  others.  Bernald  perceived 
that  his  docility  in  such  matters  was  proportioned  to 
the  force  of  resistance  which,  for  nearly  half  a  life- 
time, had  kept  him,  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  fighting 
alone  against  the  powers  of  darkness.  In  such  a  scale 
of  values  how  little  the  small  daily  alternatives  must 
weigh ! 

At  the  close  of  Howland  Wade's  discourse,  Bernald, 
charged  with  his  prodigious  secret,  had  felt  the  need 
to  escape  for  an  instant  from  the  liberated  rush  of 
talk.  The  interest  of  watching  Pellerin  was  so  peril- 
ously great  that  the  watcher  felt  it  might,  at  any 
moment,  betray  him.  He  lingered  in  the  drawing-room 
long  enough  to  see  his  friend  enclosed  in  a  mount- 
ing tide,  above  which  Mrs.  Beecher  Bain  and  Miss 
Fosdick  actively  waved  their  conversational  tridents; 
then  he  took  refuge,  at  the  back  of  the  house,  in  a  small 
dim  library  where,  in  his  younger  days,  he  had  dis- 
cussed personal  immortality  and  the  problem  of  con- 
sciousness with  beautiful  girls  whose  names  he  could 
not  remember. 

In  this  retreat  he  surprised  Mr.  Beecher  Bain,  a 
quiet  man  with  a  mild  brow,  who  was  smoking  a  sur- 
[  229  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

reptitious  cigar  over  the  last  number  of  the  Strand. 
Mr.  Bain,  at  Bernald's  approach,  dissembled  the  Strand 
under  a  copy  of  the  Hibbert  Journal,  but  tendered  his 
cigar-case  with  the  remark  that  stocks  were  heavy 
again;  and  Bernald  blissfully  abandoned  himself  to 
this  unexpected  contact  with  reality. 

On  his  return  to  the  drawing-rooms  he  found  that 
the  tide  had  set  toward  the  supper-table,  and  when  it 
finally  carried  him  thither  it  was  to  land  him  in  the 
welcoming  arms  of  Bob  Wade. 

"Hullo,  old  man!  Where  have  you  been  all  this 
time? — Winterman?  Oh,  he's  talking  to  Rowland: 
yes,  I  managed  it  finally.  I  believe  Mrs.  Bain  has  steered 
them  into  the  library,  so  that  they  shan't  be  disturbed. 
I  gave  her  an  idea  of  the  situation,  and  she  was  awfully 
kind.  We'd  better  leave  them  alone,  don't  you  think? 
I'm  trying  to  get  a  croquette  for  Miss  Fosdick." 

Bernald's  secret  leapt  in  his  bosom,  and  he  devoted 
himself  to  the  task  of  distributing  sandwiches  and 
champagne  while  his  pulses  danced  to  the  tune  of  the 
cosmic  laughter.  The  vision  of  Pellerin  and  his  Inter- 
preter, face  to  face  at  last,  had  a  Titanic  grandeur 
that  dwarfed  all  other  comedy.  "And  I  shall  hear  of  it 
presently;  in  an  hour  or  two  he'll  be  telling  me  about 
it.  And  that  hour  will  be  all  mine — mine  and  his!" 
The  dizziness  of  the  thought  made  it  difficult  for  Ber- 
nald to  preserve  the  balance  of  the  supper-plates  he 
[  230  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

was  distributing.  Life  had  for  him  at  that  moment  the 
completeness  which  seems  to  defy  disintegration. 

The  throng  in  the  dining-room  was  thickening, 
and  Bernald's  efforts  as  purveyor  were  interrupted 
by  frequent  appeals,  from  ladies  who  had  reached 
repleteness,  that  he  should  sit  down  and  tell  them 
all  about  his  interesting  friend.  Winterman's  fame, 
trumpeted  abroad  by  Miss  Fosdick,  had  reached  the 
four  corners  of  the  Uplift  Club,  and  Bernald  found 
himself  fabricating  de  toutes  pieces  a  Winterman  legend 
which  should  in  some  degree  respond  to  the  Club's 
demand  for  the  human  document.  When  at  length  he 
had  acquitted  himself  of  this  obligation,  and  was  free 
to  work  his  way  back  through  the  lessening  groups  into 
the  drawing-room,  he  was  at  last  rewarded  by  a  glimpse 
of  his  friend,  who,  still  densely  encompassed,  towered 
in  the  centre  of  the  room  in  all  his  sovereign  ugli- 
ness. 

Their  eyes  met  across  the  crowd;  but  Bernald  gath- 
ered only  perplexity  from  the  encounter.  What  were 
Pellerin's  eyes  saying  to  him  ?  What  orders,  what  con- 
fidences, what  indefinable  apprehension  did  their  long 
look  impart?  The  young  man  was  still  trying  to 
decipher  their  message  when  he  felt  a  tap  on  the  arm, 
and  turned  to  meet  the  rueful  gaze  of  Bob  Wade, 
whose  meaning  lay  clearly  enough  on  the  surface  of 
his  good  blue  stare. 

[  231  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

"Well,  it  won't  work — it  won't  work,"  the  doctor 
groaned. 

"What  won't?" 

"I  mean  with  Rowland.  Winterman  won't.  Rowland 
doesn't  take  to  him.  Says  he's  crude — frightfully  crude. 
And  you  know  Howland  hates  crudeness." 

"Oh,  I  know,"  Bernald  exulted.  It  was  the  word  he 
had  waited  for — he  saw  it  now!  Once  more  he  was  lost 
in  wonder  at  Howland 's  miraculous  faculty  for  always, 
as  the  naturalists  said,  being  true  to  type. 

"  So  I'm  afraid  it's  all  up  with  his  chance  of  writing. 
At  least  /  can  do  no  more,"  said  Wade,  discouraged. 

Bernald  pressed  him  for  further  details.  "Does 
Winterman  seem  to  mind  much?  Did  you  hear  his 
version?" 

"His  version?" 

"I  mean  what  he  said  to  Howland." 

"Why,  no. What  the  deuce  was  there  for  him  to  say  ?  " 

"What  indeed?  I  think  I'll  take  him  home,"  said 
Bernald  gaily. 

He  turned  away  to  join  the  circle  from  which,  a  few 
minutes  before,  Pellerin's  eyes  had  vainly  and  enig- 
matically signalled  to  him;  but  the  circle  had  dispersed, 
and  Pellerin  himself  was  not  in  sight. 

Bernald,  looking  about  him,  saw  that  during  his 
brief  aside  with  Wade  the  party  had  passed  into  the 
final  phase  of  dissolution.  People  still  delayed,  in  dimin- 
[  232  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

ishing  groups,  but  the  current  had  set  toward  the  doors, 
and  every  moment  or  two  it  bore  away  a  few  more 
lingerers.  Bernald,  from  his  post,  commanded  the  clear- 
ing perspective  of  the  two  drawing-rooms,  and  a  rapid 
survey  of  their  length  sufficed  to  assure  him  that  Pel- 
lerin  was  not  in  either.  Taking  leave  of  Wade,  the 
young  man  made  his  way  back  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  only  a  few  hardened  feasters  remained,  and  then 
passed  on  to  the  library  which  had  been  the  scene  of 
the  late  momentous  colloquy.  But  the  library  too  was 
empty,  and  drifting  back  to  the  inner  drawing-room 
Bernald  found  Mrs.  Beecher  Bain  domestically  putting 
out  the  candles  on  the  mantel-piece. 

"Dear  Mr.  Bernald!  Do  sit  down  and  have  a  little 
chat.  What  a  wonderful  privilege  it  has  been!  I  don't 
know  when  I've  had  such  an  intense  impression." 

She  made  way  for  him,  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa  to 
which  she  had  sunk;  and  he  echoed  her  vaguely: 
"You  were  impressed,  then?" 

"I  can't  express  to  you  how  it  affected  me!  As  Alice 
said,  it  was  a  resurrection — it  was  as  if  John  Pellerin 
were  actually  here  in  the  room  with  us!" 

Bernald  turned  on  her  with  a  half-audible  gasp. 
"You  felt  that,  dear  Mrs.  Bain?" 

"We  all  felt  it — every  one  of  us!  I  don't  wonder  the 
Greeks — it  was  the  Greeks? — regarded  eloquence  as 
a  supernatural  power.  As  Alice  says,  when  one  looked 
[  233  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

at  Rowland  Wade  one  understood  what  they  meant 
by  the  Afflatus." 

Bernald  rose  and  held  out  his  hand.  "Oh,  I  see — it 
was  Rowland  who  made  you  feel  as  if  Pellerin  were  in 
the  room  ?  And  he  made  Miss  Fosdick  feel  so  too  ?  " 

"Why,  of  course.  But  why  are  you  rushing  off?" 

"Because  I  must  hunt  up  my  friend,  who's  not 
used  to  such  late  hours." 

' '  Your  friend  ?"  Mrs .  Bain  had  to  collect  her  thoughts . 
"Oh,  Mr.  Winterman,  you  mean?  But  he's  gone 
already." 

"Gone?"  Bernald  exclaimed,  with  an  odd  twinge 
of  foreboding.  Remembering  Pellerin's  signal  across 
the  crowd,  he  reproached  himself  for  not  having  an- 
swered it  more  promptly.  There  had  been  a  summons 
in  the  look — and  it  was  certainly  strange  that  his 
friend  should  have  left  the  house  without  him. 

"Are  you  quite  sure?"  he  asked,  with  a  startled 
glance  at  the  clock. 

"Oh,  perfectly.  He  went  half  an  hour  ago.  But  you 
needn't  hurry  away  on  his  account,  for  Alice  Fosdick 
carried  him  off  with  her.  I  saw  them  leave  together." 

"Carried  him  off?  She  took  him  home  with  her,  you 
mean?" 

"Yes.   You  know  what  strange  hours  she  keeps. 
She  told  me  she  was  going  to  give  him  a  Welsh  rabbit, 
and  explain  Pellerinism  to  him." 
[  234  ] 


THE  LEGEND 

"Oh,  if  she's  going  to  explain "  Bernald  mur- 
mured. But  his  amazement  at  the  news  struggled  with 
a  confused  impatience  to  reach  his  rooms  in  time  to  be 
there  for  his  friend's  arrival.  There  could  be  no  stranger 
spectacle  beneath  the  stars  than  that  of  John  Pellerin 
carried  off  by  Miss  Fosdick,  and  listening,  in  the  small 
hours,  to  her  elucidation  of  his  doctrines;  but  Bernald 
knew  enough  of  his  sex  to  be  aware  that  such  an  ex- 
periment may  appear  less  humorous  to  its  subject 
than  to  the  detached  observer.  Even  the  Uplift  Club 
and  its  connotations  might  benefit  by  the  attraction 
of  the  unknown;  and  it  was  conceivable  that  to  a 
traveller  from  Mesopotamia  Miss  Fosdick  might  pre- 
sent elements  of  interest  which  she  had  lost  for  the 
frequenters  of  Fifth  Avenue.  There  was,  at  any  rate, 
no  denying  that  the  affair  had  become  unexpectedly 
complex,  and  that  its  farther  development  promised  to 
be  rich  in  comedy. 

In  the  contemplation  of  these  possibilities  Bernald 
sat  over  his  fire,  listening  for  Pellerin's  ring.  He  had 
arranged  his  modest  quarters  with  the  reverent  care 
of  a  celebrant  awaiting  the  descent  of  his  deity.  He 
guessed  Pellerin  to  be  careless  of  visual  detail,  but 
sensitive  to  the  happy  blending  of  sensuous  impres- 
sions: to  the  spell  of  lamplight  on  books,  and  of  a 
deep  chair  placed  where  one  could  watch  the  fire. 
[  235  ] 


THE  LEGEND 

The  chair  was  there,  and  Bernald,  facing  it  across 
the  hearth,  already  saw  it  filled  by  Pellerin's  loung- 
ing figure.  The  autumn  dawn  came  late,  and  even  now 
they  had  before  them  the  promise  of  some  untroubled 
hours.  Bernald,  sitting  there  alone  in  the  warm  stillness 
of  his  room,  and  in  the  profounder  hush  of  his  expec- 
tancy, was  conscious  of  gathering  up  all  his  sensibilities 
and  perceptions  into  one  exquisitely-adjusted  instru- 
ment of  notation.  Until  now  he  had  tasted  Pellerin's 
society  only  in  unpremeditated  snatches  and  had  always 
left  him  with  a  sense,  on  his  own  part,  of  waste  and 
shortcoming.  Now,  in  the  lull  of  this  dedicated  hour, 
he  felt  that  he  should  miss  nothing,  and  forget  nothing, 
of  the  initiation  that  awaited  him.  And  catching  sight 
of  Pellerin's  pipe,  he  rose  and  laid  it  carefully  on  a 
table  by  the  arm-chair  .  .  . 

"No.  I've  never  had  any  news  of  him,"  Bernald  heard 
himself  repeating.  He  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  and  with 
the  automatic  utterance  that  alone  made  it  possible 
to  say  the  words. 

They  were  addressed  to  Miss  Fosdick,  into  whose 
neighbourhood  chance  had  thrown  him  at  a  dinner,  a 
year  or  so  later  than  their  encounter  at  the  Uplift 
Club.  Hitherto  he  had  successfully,  and  intentionally, 
avoided  Miss  Fosdick,  not  from  any  animosity  toward 
[  236  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

that  unconscious  instrument  of  fate,  but  from  an  intense 
reluctance  to  pronounce  the  words  which  he  knew  he 
should  have  to  speak  if  they  met. 

Now,  as  it  turned  out,  his  chief  surprise  was  that 
she  should  wait  so  long  to  make  him  speak  them.  All 
through  the  dinner  she  had  swept  him  along  on  a  rapid 
current  of  talk  which  showed  no  tendency  to  linger 
or  turn  back  upon  the  past.  At  first  he  ascribed  her 
reserve  to  a  sense  of  delicacy  with  which  he  reproached 
himself  for  not  having  credited  her;  then  he  saw  that 
she  had  been  carried  so  far  beyond  the  point  at  which 
they  had  last  faced  each  other,  that  she  was  finally 
borne  back  to  it  only  by  the  merest  hazard  of  asso- 
ciated ideas.  For  it  appeared  that  the  very  next  evening, 
at  Mrs.  Beecher  Bain's,  a  Hindu  Mahatma  was  to 
lecture  to  the  Uplift  Club  on  the  Limits  of  the  Sub- 
liminal; and  it  was  owing  to  no  less  a  person  than 
Howland  Wade  that  this  exceptional  privilege  had  been 
obtained. 

"Of  course  How'and's  known  all  over  the  world  as 
the  interpreter  of  Pellerinism,  and  the  Aga  Gautch, 
who  had  absolutely  declined  to  speak  anywhere  in 
public,  wrote  to  Isabella  that  he  could  not  refuse 
anything  that  Mr.  Wade  asked.  Did  you  know  that 
Rowland's  lecture,  'What  Pellerinism  Means,'  has 
been  translated  into  twenty-two  languages,  and  gone 
into  a  fifth  edition  in  Icelandic?  Why,  that  reminds 
[  237  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

me,"  Miss  Fosdick  broke  off — "I've  never  heard  what 
became  of  your  queer  friend — what  was  his  name  ? — 
whom  you  and  Bob  Wade  accused  me  of  spiriting 
away  the  night  that  Rowland  gave  that  very  lecture 
at  Hatty  Bain's.  And  I've  never  seen  you  since  you 
rushed  into  the  house  the  next  morning,  and  dragged 
me  out  of  bed  to  know  what  I'd  done  with  him!" 

With  a  sharp  effort  Bernald  gathered  himself  to- 
gether to  have  it  out.  "Well,  what  did  you  do  with 
him?"  he  retorted. 

She  laughed  her  appreciation  of  his  humour.  "Just 
what  I  told  you,  of  course.  I  said  good-bye  to  him  on 
Isabella's  door-step." 

Bernald  looked  at  her.  "It's  really  true,  then,  that 
he  didn't  go  home  with  you  ?" 

She  bantered  back:  "Have  you  suspected  me,  all 
this  time,  of  hiding  his  remains  in  the  cellar?"  And 
with  a  droop  of  her  fine  lids  she  added:  "I  wish  he 
had  come  home  with  me,  for  he  was  rather  interesting, 
and  there  were  things  about  Pellerinism  that  I  think 
I  could  have  explained  to  him." 

Bernald  helped  himself  to  a  nectarine,  and  Miss 
Fosdick  continued  on  a  note  of  amused  curiosity: 
"So  you've  really  never  had  any  news  of  him  since 
that  night?" 

"No — I've  never  had  any  news  of  him." 

"Not  the  least  little  message  ?" 
[  238  ] 


THE  LEGEND 

"Not  the  least  little  message." 

"Or  a  rumour  or  report  of  any  kind  ?" 

"Or  a  rumour  or  report  of  any  kind." 

Miss  Fosdick's  interest  seemed  to  be  revived  by  the 
undeniable  strangeness  of  the  case.  "It's  rather  creepy, 
isn't  it  ?  What  could  have  happened  ?  You  don't  sup- 
pose he  could  have  been  waylaid  and  murdered?"  she 
asked  with  brightening  eyes. 

Bernald  shook  his  head  serenely.  "No.  I'm  sure  he's 
safe — quite  safe." 

"But  if  you're  sure,  you  must  know  something." 

"No.  I  know  nothing,"  he  repeated. 

She  scanned  him  incredulously.  "But  what's  your 
theory — for  you  must  have  a  theory  ?  What  in  the  world 
can  have  become  of  him  ?  " 

Bernald  returned  her  look  and  hesitated.  "Do  you 
happen  to  remember  the  last  th  ng  he  said  to  you — the 
very  last,  on  the  door-step,  when  he  left  you  ?" 

"The  last  thing?"  She  poised  her  fork  above  the 
peach  on  her  plate.  "I  don't  think  he  said  any- 
thing. Oh,  yes — when  I  reminded  him  that  he'd 
solemnly  promised  to  come  back  with  me  and  have  a 
little  talk  he  said  he  couldn't  because  he  was  going 
home." 

"Well,  then,  I  suppose,"  said  Bernald,  "he  went 
home." 

She  glanced  at  him  as  if  suspecting  a  trap.  "Dear  me, 
[  239  ] 


THE   LEGEND 

how  flat!  I  always  inclined  to  a  mysterious  murder. 
But  of  course  you  know  more  of  him  than  you  say." 

She  began  to  cut  her  peach,  but  paused  above  a 
lifted  bit  to  ask,  with  a  renewal  of  animation  in  her 
expressive  eyes:  "By  the  way,  had  you  heard  that 
Rowland  Wade  has  been  gradually  getting  farther  and 
farther  away  from  Pellerinism  ?  It  seems  he's  begun  to 
feel  that  there's  a  Positivist  element  in  it  which  is 
narrowing  to  any  one  who  has  gone  at  all  deeply  into 
the  Wisdom  of  the  East.  He  was  intensely  interesting 
about  it  the  other  day,  and  of  course  I  do  see  what 
he  feels.  .  .  Oh,  it's  too  long  to  tell  you  now;  but  if 
you  could  manage  to  come  in  to  tea  some  afternoon 
soon — any  day  but  Wednesday — I  should  so  like  to 
explain " 


[  240  ] 


THE   EYES 


THE    EYES 


WE  had  been  put  in  the  mood  for  ghosts,  that 
evening,  after  an  excellent  dinner  at  our  old 
friend  Culwin's,  by  a  tale  of  Fred  Murchard's — the 
narrative  of  a  strange  personal  visitation. 

Seen  through  the  haze  of  our  cigars,  and  by  the 
drowsy  gleam  of  a  coal  fire,  Culwin's  library,  with  its 
oak  walls  and  dark  old  bindings,  made  a  good  setting 
for  such  evocations;  and  ghostly  experiences  at  first 
hand  being,  after  Murchard's  opening,  the  only  kind 
acceptable  to  us,  we  proceeded  to  take  stock  of  our 
group  and  tax  each  member  for  a  contribution.  There 
were  eight  of  us,  and  seven  contrived,  in  a  manner 
more  or  less  adequate,  to  fulfil  the  condition  imposed. 
It  surprised  us  all  to  find  that  we  could  muster  such  a 
show  of  supernatural  impressions,  for  none  of  us, 
excepting  Murchard  himself  and  young  Phil  Fren- 
ham — whose  story  was  the  slightest  of  the  lot — had  the 
habit  of  sending  our  souls  into  the  invisible.  So  that,  on 
the  whole,  we  had  every  reason  to  be  proud  of  our  seven 
"exhibits,"  and  none  of  us  would  have  dreamed  of  ex- 
pecting an  eighth  from  our  host. 
[  243  ] 


THE   EYES 

Our  old  friend,  Mr.  Andrew  Culwin,  who  had  sat 
back  in  his  arm-chair,  listening  and  blinking  through 
the  smoke  circles  with  the  cheerful  tolerance  of  a  wise 
old  idol,  was  not  the  kind  of  man  likely  to  be  favoured 
with  such  contacts,  though  he  had  imagination  enough 
to  enjoy,  without  envying,  the  superior  privileges  of  his 
guests.  By  age  and  by  education  he  belonged  to  the 
stout  Positivist  tradition,  and  his  habit  of  thought  had 
been  formed  in  the  days  of  the  epic  struggle  between 
physics  and  metaphysics.  But  he  had  been,  then  and 
always,  essentially  a  spectator,  a  humorous  detached 
observer  of  the  immense  muddled  variety  show  of  life, 
slipping  out  of  his  seat  now  and  then  for  a  brief  dip 
into  the  convivialities  at  the  back  of  the  house,  but  never, 
as  far  as  one  knew,  showing  the  least  desire  to  jump  on 
the  stage  and  do  a  "turn." 

Among  his  contemporaries  there  lingered  a  vague 
tradition  of  his  having,  at  a  remote  period,  and  in  a 
romantic  clime,  been  wounded  in  a  duel;  but  this  legend 
no  more  tallied  with  what  we  younger  men  knew  of 
his  character  than  my  mother's  assertion  that  he  had 
once  been  "a  charming  little  man  with  nice  eyes"  cor- 
responded to  any  possible  reconstitution  of  his  physi- 
ognomy. 

"He  never  can  have  looked  like  anything  but  a 
bundle  of  sticks,"  Murchard  had  once  said  of  him. 
"Or  a  phosphorescent  log,  rather,"  some  one  else 
[  244  ] 


THE   EYES 

amended;  and  we  recognised  the  happiness  of  this  de- 
scription of  his  small  squat  trunk,  with  the  red  blink  of 
the  eyes  in  a  face  like  mottled  bark.  He  had  always 
been  possessed  of  a  leisure  which  he  had  nursed  and 
protected,  instead  of  squandering  it  in  vain  activities. 
His  carefully  guarded  hours  had  been  devoted  to  the 
cultivation  of  a  fine  intelligence  and  a  few  judiciously 
chosen  habits;  and  none  of  the  disturbances  common 
to  human  experience  seemed  to  have  crossed  his  sky. 
Nevertheless,  his  dispassionate  survey  of  the  universe 
had  not  raised  his  opinion  of  that  costly  experiment,  and 
his  study  of  the  human  race  seemed  to  have  resulted  in 
the  conclusion  that  all  men  were  superfluous,  and  women 
necessary  only  because  some  one  had  to  do  the  cook- 
ing. On  the  importance  of  this  point  his  convictions 
were  absolute,  and  gastronomy  was  the  only  science 
which  he  revered  as  a  dogma.  It  must  be  owned  that 
his  little  dinners  were  a  strong  argument  in  favour  of 
this  view,  besides  being  a  reason — though  not  the  main 
one — for  the  fidelity  of  his  friends. 

Mentally  he  exercised  a  hospitality  less  seductive 
but  no  less  stimulating.  His  mind  was  like  a  forum,  or 
some  open  meeting-place  for  the  exchange  of  ideas: 
somewhat  cold  and  draughty,  but  light,  spacious  and 
orderly — a  kind  of  academic  grove  from  which  all  the 
leaves  have  fallen.  In  this  privileged  area  a  dozen  of 
us  were  wont  to  stretch  our  muscles  and  expand  our 
[245] 


THE   EYES 

lungs;  and,  as  if  to  prolong  as  much  as  possible  the 
tradition  of  what  we  felt  to  be  a  vanishing  institution, 
one  or  two  neophytes  were  now  and  then  added  to  our 
band. 

Young  Phil  Frenham  was  the  last,  and  the  most 
interesting,  of  these  recruits,  and  a  good  example  of 
Murchard's  somewhat  morbid  assertion  that  our  old 
friend  "liked  'em  juicy."  It  was  indeed  a  fact  that 
Culwin,  for  all  his  dryness,  specially  tasted  the  lyric 
qualities  in  youth.  As  he  was  far  too  good  an  Epi- 
curean to  nip  the  flowers  of  soul  which  he  gathered  for 
his  garden,  his  friendship  was  not  a  disintegrating  in- 
fluence: on  the  contrary,  it  forced  the  young  idea  to 
robuster  bloom.  And  in  Phil  Frenham  he  had  a  good 
subject  for  experimentation.  The  boy  was  really  intelli- 
gent, and  the  soundness  of  his  nature  was  like  the 
pure  paste  under  a  fine  glaze.  Culwin  had  fished  him 
out  of  a  fog  of  family  dulness^  and  pulled  him  up 
to  a  peak  in  Darien;  and  the  adventure  hadn't  hurt 
him  a  bit.  Indeed,  the  skill  with  which  Culwin  had  con- 
trived to  stimulate  his  curiosities  without  robbing  them 
of  their  bloom  of  awe  seemed  to  me  a  sufficient  answer 
to  Murchard's  ogreish  metaphor.  There  was  nothing 
hectic  in  Frenham's  efflorescence,  and  his  old  friend 
had  not  laid  even  a  finger-tip  on  the  sacred  stupidities. 
One  wanted  no  better  proof  of  that  than  the  fact  that 
Frenham  still  reverenced  them  in  Culwin. 
[  246  ] 


THE   EYES 

"There's  a  side  of  him  you  fellows  don't  see.  I  be- 
lieve that  story  about  the  duel!"  he  declared;  and  it 
was  of  the  very  essence  of  this  belief  that  it  should  impel 
him — just  as  our  little  party  was  dispersing — to  turn 
back  to  our  host  with  the  joking  demand:  "And  now 
you've  got  to  tell  us  about  your  ghost!" 

The  outer  door  had  closed  on  Murchard  and  the 
others;  only  Frenham  and  I  remained;  and  the  devoted 
servant  who  presided  over  Culwin's  destinies,  having 
brought  a  fresh  supply  of  soda-water,  had  been  laconi- 
cally ordered  to  bed. 

Culwin's  sociability  was  a  night-blooming  flower, 
and  we  knew  that  he  expected  the  nucleus  of  his  group 
to  tighten  around  him  after  midnight.  But  Frenham's 
appeal  seemed  to  disconcert  him  comically,  and  he 
rose  from  the  chair  in  which  he  had  just  reseated  him- 
self after  his  farewells  in  the  hall. 

"My  ghost  ?  Do  you  suppose  I'm  fool  enough  to  go 
to  the  expense  of  keeping  one  of  my  own,  when  there 
are  so  many  charming  ones  in  my  friends'  closets  ? — 
Take  another  cigar,"  he  said,  revolving  toward  me 
with  a  laugh. 

Frenham  laughed  too,  pulling  up  his  slender  height 
before  the  chimney-piece  as  he  turned  to  face  his  short 
bristling  friend. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "you'd  never  be  content  to  share  if 
you  met  one  you  really  liked." 
[  247  ] 


THE  EYES 

Culwin  had  dropped  back  into  his  arm-chair,  his 
shock  head  embedded  in  the  hollow  of  worn  leather, 
his  little  eyes  glimmering  over  a  fresh  cigar. 

"Liked— liked?  Good  Lord!"  he  growled. 

"Ah,  you  have,  then!"  Frenham  pounced  on  him  in 
the  same  instant,  with  a  side-glance  of  victory  at  me; 
but  Culwin  cowered  gnomelike  among  his  cushions, 
dissembling  himself  in  a  protective  cloud  of  smoke. 

"What's  the  use  of  denying  it?  You've  seen  every- 
thing, so  of  course  you've  seen  a  ghost!"  his  young 
friend  persisted,  talking  intrepidly  into  the  cloud.  "Or, 
if  you  haven't  seen  one,  it's  only  because  you've  seen 
two!" 

The  form  of  the  challenge  seemed  to  strike  our  host. 
He  shot  his  head  out  of  the  mist  with  a  queer  tortoise- 
like  motion  he  sometimes  had,  and  blinked  approvingly 
at  Frenham. 

"That's  it,"  he  flung  at  us  on  a  shrill  jerk  of 
laughter;  "it's  only  because  I've  seen  two!" 

The  words  were  so  unexpected  that  they  dropped 
down  and  down  into  a  deep  silence^  while  \re  con- 
tinued to  stare  at  each  other  over  Culwin's  head,  and 
Culwin  stared  at  his  ghosts.  At  length  Frenham,  with- 
out speaking,  threw  himself  into  the  chair  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hearth,  and  leaned  forward  with  his  listening 
smile  .  .  . 

» 

[£48] 


THE   EYES 

II 

"On,  of  course  they're  not  show  ghosts — a  collector 
wouldn't  think  anything  of  them  .  .  .  Don't  let  me 
raise  your  hopes  .  .  .  their  one  merit  is  their  numerical 
strength:  the  exceptional  fact  of  their  being  two.  But, 
as  against  this,  I  'm  bound  to  admit  that  at  any  moment 
I  could  probably  have  exorcised  them  both  by  asking 
my  doctor  for  a  prescription,  or  my  oculist  for  a  pair 
of  spectacles.  Only,  as  I  never  could  make  up  my 
mind  whether  to  go  to  the  doctor  or  the  oculist — whether 
I  was  afflicted  by  an  optical  or  a  digestive  delusion — I 
left  them  to  pursue  their  interesting  double  life,  though 
at  times  they  made  mine  exceedingly  uncomfortable  .  .  . 

"Yes — uncomfortable;  and  you  know  how  I  hate 
to  be  uncomfortable!  But  it  was  part  of  my  stupid 
pride,  when  the  thing  began,  not  to  admit  that  I  could 
be  disturbed  by  the  trifling  matter  of  seeing  two 

"And  then  I'd  no  reason,  really,  to  suppose  I  was  ill. 
As  far  as  I  knew  I  was  simply  bored — horribly  bored. 
But  it  was  part  of  my  boredom — I  remember — that  I 
was  feeling  so  uncommonly  well,  and  didn't  know  how 
on  earth  to  work  off  my  surplus  energy.  I  had  come 
back  from  a  long  journey — down  in  South  America  and 
Mexico — and  had  settled  down  for  the  winter  near 
New  York,  with  an  old  aunt  who  had  known  Washing- 
ton Irving  and  corresponded  with  N.  P.  Willis.  She 
[  249  ] 


THE   EYES 

lived,  not  far  from  Irvington,  in  a  damp  Gothic  villa, 
overhung  by  Norway  spruces,  and  looking  exactly  like 
a  memorial  emblem  done  in  hair.  Her  personal  appear- 
ance was  in  keeping  with  this  image,  and  her  own  hair 
— of  which  there  was  little  left — might  have  been  sacri- 
ficed to  the  manufacture  of  the  emblem. 

"I  had  just  reached  the  end  of  an  agitated  year, 
with  considerable  arrears  to  make  up  in  money  and 
emotion;  and  theoretically  it  seemed  as  though  my 
aunt's  mild  hospitality  would  be  as  beneficial  to  my 
nerves  as  to  my  purse.  But  the  deuce  of  it  was  that  as 
soon  as  I  felt  myself  safe  and  sheltered  my  energy  began 
to  revive;  and  how  was  I  to  work  it  off  inside  of  a 
memorial  emblem  ?  I  had.,  at  that  time,  the  illusion  that 
sustained  intellectual  effort  could  engage  a  man's  whole 
activity;  and  I  decided  to  write  a  great  book — I  forget 
about  what.  My  aunt,  impressed  by  my  plan,  gave  up 
to  me  her  Gothic  library,  filled  with  classics  bound  in 
black  cloth  and  daguerreotypes  of  faded  celebrities; 
and  I  sat  down  at  my  desk  to  win  myself  a  place  among 
their  number.  And  to  facilitate  my  task  she  lent  me 
a  cousin  to  copy  my  manuscript. 

"The  cousin  was  a  nice  girl,  and  I  had  an  idea  that 
a  nice  girl  was  just  what  I  needed  to  restore  my  faith 
in  human  nature,  and  principally  in  myself.  She  was 
neither  beautiful  nor  intelligent — poor  Alice  Nowell! — 
but  it  interested  me  to  see  any  woman  content  to  be  so 
[  250  ] 


THE   EYES 

uninteresting,  and  I  wanted  to  find  out  the  secret  of 
her  content.  In  doing  this  I  handled  it  rather  rashly, 
and  put  it  out  of  joint — oh,  just  for  a  moment !  There's 
no  fatuity  in  telling  you  this,  for  the  poor  girl  had  never 
seen  any  one  but  cousins  .  .  . 

"Well,  I  was  sorry  for  what  I'd  done,  of  course,  and 
confoundedly  bothered  as  to  how  I  should  put  it  straight. 
She  was  staying  in  the  house,  and  one  evening,  after 
my  aunt  had  gone  to  bed,  she  came  down  to  the  library 
to  fetch  a  book  she'd  mislaid,  like  any  artless  heroine 
on  the  shelves  behind  us.  She  was  pink-nosed  and 
flustered,  and  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  her  hair, 
though  it  was  fairly  thick  and  pretty,  would  look  exactly 
like  my  aunt's  when  she  grew  older.  I  was  glad  I  had 
noticed  this,  for  it  made  it  easier  for  me  to  decide  to  do 
what  was  right;  and  when  I  had  found  the  book  she 
hadn't  lost  I  told  her  I  was  leaving  for  Europe  that  week. 

"Europe  was  terribly  far  off  in  those  days,  and  Alice 
knew  at  once  what  I  meant.  She  didn't  take  it  in  the 
least  as  I'd  expected — it  would  have  been  easier  if  she 
had.  She  held  her  book  very  tight,  and  turned  away  a 
moment  to  wind  up  the  lamp  on  my  desk — it  had  a 
ground  glass  shade  with  vine  leaves,  and  glass  drops 
around  the  edge,  I  remember.  Then  she  came  back, 
held  out  her  hand,  and  said:  'Good-bye.'  And  as  she 
said  it  she  looked  straight  at  me  and  kissed  me.  I  had 
never  felt  anything  as  fresh  and  shy  and  brave  as  her 
[251  ] 


THE   EYES 

kiss.  It  was  worse  than  any  reproach,  and  it  made  me 
ashamed  to  deserve  a  reproach  from  her.  I  said  to 
myself:  'I'll  marry  her,  and  when  my  aunt  dies  she'll 
leave  us  this  house,  and  I'll  sit  here  at  the  desk  and 
go  on  with  my  book;  and  Alice  will  sit  over  there  with 
her  embroidery  and  look  at  me  as  she's  looking  now. 
And  life  will  go  on  like  that  for  any  number  of  years.' 
The  prospect  frightened  me  a  little,  but  at  the  time  it 
didn't  frighten  me  as  much  as  doing  anything  to  hurt 
her;  and  ten  minutes  later  she  had  my  seal  ring  on  her 
finger,  and  my  promise  that  when  I  went  abroad  she 
should  go  with  me. 

"You'll  wonder  why  I'm  enlarging  on  this  incident. 
It's  because  the  evening  on  which  it  took  place  was  the 
very  evening  on  which  I  first  saw  the  queer  sight  I've 
spoken  of.  Being  at  that  time  an  ardent  believer  in  a 
necessary  sequence  between  cause  and  effect  I  naturally 
tried  to  trace  some  kind  of  link  between  what  had  just 
happened  to  me  in  my  aunt's  library,  and  what  was  to 
happen  a  few  hours  later  on  the  same  night;  and  so  the 
coincidence  between  the  two  events  always  remained  in 
my  mind. 

"I  went  up  to  bed  with  rather  a  heavy  heart,  for  I 
was  bowed  under  the  weight  of  the  first  good  action  I 
had  ever  consciously  committed;  and  young  as  I  was, 
I  saw  the  gravity  of  my  situation.  Don't  imagine  from 
this  that  I  had  hitherto  been  an  instrument  of  destruc- 
[  252  ] 


THE   EYES 

tion.  I  had  been  merely  a  harmless  young  man,  who  hac^ 
followed  his  bent  and  declined  all  collaboration  with 
Providence.  Now  I  had  suddenly  undertaken  to  pro- 
mote the  moral  order  of  the  world,  and  I  felt  a  good 
deal  like  the  trustful  spectator  who  has  given  his  gold 
watch  to  the  conjurer,  and  doesn't  know  in  what  shape 
he'll  get  it  back  when  the  trick  is  over  .  .  .  Still,  a  glow 
of  self-righteousness  tempered  my  fears,  and  I  said 
to  myself  as  I  undressed  that  when  I'd  got  used  to 
being  good  it  probably  wouldn't  make  me  as  nervous 
as  it  did  at  the  start.  And  by  the  time  I  was  in  bed,  and 
had  blown  out  my  candle,  I  felt  that  I  really  was  getting 
used  to  it,  and  that,  as  far  as  I'd  got,  it  was  not  unlike 
sinking  down  into  one  of  my  aunt's  very  softest  wool 
mattresses. 

"I  closed  my  eyes  on  this  image,  and  when  I  opened 
them  it  must  have  been  a  good  deal  later,  for  my  room 
had  grown  cold,  and  intensely  still.  I  was  waked  by  the 
queer  feeling  we  all  know — the  feeling  that  there  was 
something  in  the  room  that  hadn't  been  there  when  I 
fell  asleep.  I  sat  up  and  strained  my  eyes  into  the  dark- 
ness. The  room  was  pitch  black,  and  at  first  I  saw 
nothing;  but  gradually  a  vague  glimmer  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed  turned  into  two  eyes  staring  back  at  me.  I 
couldn't  distinguish  the  features  attached  to  them,  but 
as  I  looked  the  eyes  grew  more  and  more  distinct:  they 
gave  out  a  light  of  their  own. 
[253] 


THE   EYES 

1  "The  sensation  of  being  thus  gazed  at  was  far  from 
pleasant,  and  you  might  suppose  that  my  first  impulse 
would  have  been  to  jump  out  of  bed  and  hurl  myself 
on  the  invisible  figure  attached  to  the  eyes.  But  it 
wasn't — my  impulse  was  simply  to  lie  still  ...  I  can't 
say  whether  this  was  due  to  an  immediate  sense  of 
the  uncanny  nature  of  the  apparition — to  the  certainty 
that  if  I  did  jump  out  of  bed  I  should  hurl  myself  on 
nothing — or  merely  to  the  benumbing  effect  of  the  eyes 
V  themselves.  They  were  the  very  worst  eyes  I've  ever 
seen:  a  man's  eyes — but  what  a  man!  My  first  thought 
was  that  he  must  be  frightfully  old.  The  orbits  were 
sunk,  and  the  thick  red-lined  lids  hung  over  the  eye- 
balls like  blinds  of  which  the  cords  are  broken.  One 
lid  drooped  a  little  lower  than  the  other,  with  the  effect 
of  a  crooked  leer;  and  between  these  folds  of  flesh,  with 
their  scant  bristle  of  lashes,  the  eyes  themselves,  small 
glassy  disks  with  an  agate-like  rim,  looked  like  sea- 
•  pebbles  in  the  grip  of  a  star-fish. 

"But  the  age  of  the  eyes  was  not  the  most  unpleasant 
thing  about  them.  What  turned  me  sick  was  their  ex- 
pression of  vicious  security.  I  don't  know  how  else  to 
describe  the  fact  that  they  seemed  to  belong  to  a  man 
who  had  done  a  lot  of  harm  in  his  life,  but  had  always 
kept  just  inside  the  danger  lines.  They  were  not  the 
eyes  of  a  coward,  but  of  some  one  much  too  clever  to 
take  risks;  and  my  gorge  rose  at  their  look  of  base 

[  254  ] 
-f 


THE   EYES 

astuteness.  Yet  even  that  wasn't  the  worst;  for  as  we 
continued  to  scan  each  other  I  saw  in  them  a  tinge  of 
derision,  and  felt  myself  to  be  its  object. 

"At  that  I  was  seized  by  an  impulse  of  rage  that 
jerked  me  to  my  feet  and  pitched  me  straight  at  the 
unseen  figure.  But  of  course  there  wasn't  any  figure 
there,  and  my  fists  struck  at  emptiness.  Ashamed  and 
cold,  I  groped  about  for  a  match  and  lit  the  candles. 
The  room  looked  just  as  usual — as  I  had  known  it 
would;  and  I  crawled  back  to  bed,  and  blew  out  the 
lights. 

"As  soon  as  the  room  was  dark  again  the  eyes  reap- 
peared; and  I  now  applied  myself  to  explaining  them 
on  scientific  principles.  At  first  I  thought  the  illusion 
might  have  been  caused  by  the  glow  of  the  last  embers 
in  the  chimney;  but  the  fireplace  was  on  the  other  side 
of  my  bed,  and  so  placed  that  the  fire  could  not 
be  reflected  in  my  toilet  glass,  which  was  the  only 
mirror  in  the  room.  Then  it  struck  me  that  I  might 
have  been  tricked  by  the  reflection  of  the  embers 
in  some  polished  bit  of  wood  or  metal;  and  though  I 
couldn't  discover  any  object  of  the  sort  in  my  line  of 
vision,  I  got  up  again,  groped  my  way  to  the  hearth, 
and  covered  what  was  left  of  the  fire.  But  as  soon  as 
I  was  back  in  bed  the  eyes  were  back  at  its  foot. 

"They  were  an  hallucination,  then:  that  was  plain. 
But  the  fact  that  they  were  not  due  to  any  external 

[255  ] 

v 

"V 


THE   EYES 

dupery  didn't  make  them  a  bit  pleasanter.  For  if  they 
were  a  projection  of  my  inner  consciousness,  what 
the  deuce  was  the  matter  with  that  organ?  I  had 
gone  deeply  enough  into  the  mystery  of  morbid  patho- 
logical states  to  picture  the  conditions  under  which  an 
exploring  mind  might  lay  itself  open  to  such  a  midnight 
admonition;  but  I  couldn't  fit  it  to  my  present  case.  I 
had  never  felt  more  normal,  mentally  and  physically; 
and  the  only  unusual  fact  in  my  situation — that  of  hav- 
ing assured  the  happiness  of  an  amiable  girl — did  not 
seem  of  a  kind  to  summon  unclean  spirits  about  my 
pillow.  But  there  were  the  eyes  still  looking  at  me  .  .  . 

"I  shut  mine,  and  tried  to  evoke  a  vision  of  Alice 
Nowell  's.  They  were  not  remarkable  eyes,  but  they  were 
as  wholesome  as  fresh  water,  and  if  she  had  had  more 
imagination — or  longer  lashes — their  expression  might 
have  been  interesting.  As  it  was,  they  did  not  prove 
very  efficacious,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  perceived  that 
they  had  mysteriously  changed  into  the  eyes  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed.  It  exasperated  me  more  to  feel  these  glaring 
at  me  through  my  shut  lids  than  to  see  them,  and  I 
opened  my  eyes  again  and  looked  straight  into  their 
hateful  stare  .  .  . 

"And  so  it  went  on  all  night.  I  can't  tell  you  what 

that  night  was  like,  nor  how  long  it  lasted.  Have  you  ever 

lain  in  bed,  hoplessly  wide  awake,  and  tried  to  keep 

your  eyes  shut,  knowing  that  if  you  opened  'em  you'd 

[  256  ]  " 


THE   EYES 

see  something  you  dreaded  and  loathed  ?  It  sounds 
easy,  but  it's  devilish  hard.  Those  eyes  hung  there  and 
drew  me.  I  had  the  vertige  de  I'abime,  and  their  red 
lids  were  the  edge  of  my  abyss.  .  .  I  had  known  nervous 
hours  before:  hours  when  I'd  felt  the  wind  of  danger 
in  my  neck;  but  never  this  kind  of  strain.  It  wasn't 
that  the  eyes  were  awful;  they  hadn't  the  majesty  of 
the  powers  of  darkness.  But  they  had — how  shall  I 
say? — a  physical  effect  that  was  the  equivalent  of  a 
bad  smell:  their  look  left  a  smear  like  a  snail's.  And  I 
didn't  see  what  business  they  had  with  me,  anyhow — 
and  I  stared  and  stared,  trying  to  find  out .  .  . 

"I  don't  know  what  effect  they  were  trying  to  pro- 
duce; but  the  effect  they  did  produce  was  that  of  mak- 
ing me  pack  my  portmanteau  and  bolt  to  town  early 
the  next  morning.  I  left  a  note  for  my  aunt,  explaining 
that  I  was  ill  and  had  gone  to  see  my  doctor;  and  as  a 
matter  of  fact  I  did  feel  uncommonly  ill — the  night 
seemed  to  have  pumped  all  the  blood  out  of  me.  But 
when  I  reached  town  I  didn't  go  to  the  doctor's.  I 
went  to  a  friend's  rooms,  and  threw  myself  on  a  bed, 
and  slept  for  ten  heavenly  hours.  When  I  woke  it  was 
the  middle  of  the  night,  and  I  turned  cold  at  the  thought 
of  what  might  be  waiting  for  me.  I  sat  up,  shaking,  and 
stared  into  the  darkness;  but  there  wasn't  a  break  in 
its  blessed  surface,  and  when  I  saw  that  the  eyes  were 
not  there  I  dropped  back  into  another  long  sleep. 
[257] 


THE   EYES 

"I  had  left  no  word  for  Alice  when  I  fled,  because 
I  meant  to  go  back  the  next  morning.  But  the  next 
morning  I  was  too  exhausted  to  stir.  As  the  day  went 
on  the  exhaustion  increased,  instead  of  wearing  off 
like  the  fatigue  left  by  an  ordinary  night  of  insomnia: 
the  effect  of  the  eyes  seemed  to  be  cumulative,  and  the 
thought  of  seeing  them  again  grew  intolerable.  For  two 
days  I  fought  my  dread;  and  on  the  third  evening 
I  pulled  myself  together  and  decided  to  go  back  the 
next  morning.  I  felt  a  good  deal  happier  as  soon  as  I'd 
decided,  for  I  knew  that  my  abrupt  disappearance,  and 
the  strangeness  of  my  not  writing,  must  have  been  very 
distressing  to  poor  Alice.  I  went  to  bed  with  an  easy 
mind,  and  fell  asleep  at  once;  but  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  I  woke,  and  there  were  the  eyes  .  .  . 

"Well,  I  simply  couldn't  face  them;  and  instead  of 
going  back  to  my  aunt's  I  bundled  a  few  things  into  a 
trunk  and  jumped  aboard  the  first  steamer  for  England. 
I  was  so  dead  tired  when  I  got  on  board  that  I  crawled 
straight  into  my  berth,  and  slept  most  of  the  way  over; 
and  I  can't  tell  you  the  bliss  it  was  to  wake  from  those 
long  dreamless  stretches  and  look  fearlessly  into  the 
dark,  knowing  that  I  shouldn't  see  the  eyes  .  .  . 

"I  stayed  abroad  for  a  year,  and  then  I  stayed  for 

another;  and  during  that  time  I  never  had  a  glimpse 

of  them.  That  was  enough  reason  for  prolonging  my 

stay  if  I'd  been  on  a  desert  island.  Another  was,  of 

[  258  ] 


THE   EYES 

course,  that  I  had  perfectly  come  to  see,  on  the  voyage 
over,  the  complete  impossibility  of  my  marrying  Alice 
No  well.  The  fact  that  I  had  been  so  slow  in  making 
this  discovery  annoyed  me,  and  made  me  want  to 
avoid  explanations.  The  bliss  of  escaping  at  one  stroke 
from  the  eyes,  and  from  this  other  embarrassment, 
gave  my  freedom  an  extraordinary  zest;  and  the  longer 
I  savoured  it  the  better  I  liked  its  taste. 

"The  eyes  had  burned  such  a  hole  in  my  conscious- 
ness that  for  a  long  time  I  went  on  puzzling  over  the 
nature  of  the  apparition,  and  wondering  if  it  would 
ever  come  back.  But  as  time  passed  I  lost  this  dread, 
and  retained  only  the  precision  of  the  image.  Then 
that  faded  in  its  turn. 

"The  second  year  found  me  settled  in  Rome,  where 
I  was  planning,  I  believe,  to  write  another  great  book 
— a  definitive  work  on  Etruscan  influences  in  Italian 
art.  At  any  rate,  I'd  found  some  pretext  of  the  kind 
for  taking  a  sunny  apartment  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna 
and  dabbling  about  in  the  Forum;  and  there,  one 
morning,  a  charming  youth  came  to  me.  As  he  stood 
there  in  the  warm  light,  slender  and  smooth  and  hya- 
cinthine,  he  might  have  stepped  from  a  ruined  altar — 
one  to  Antinous,  say;  but  he'd  come  instead  from 
New  York,  with  a  letter  (of  all  people)  from  Alice 
Nowell.  The  letter — the  first  I'd  had  from  her  since 
our  break — was  simply  a  line  introducing  her  young 
[  259  ] 


THE   EYES 

cousin,  Gilbert  Noyes,  and  appealing  to  me  to  be- 
friend him.  It  appeared,  poor  lad,  that  he  'had  talent,' 
and  'wanted  to  write';  and,  an  obdurate  family  having 
insisted  that  his  calligraphy  should  take  the  form  of 
double  entry,  Alice  had  intervened  to  win  him  six 
months'  respite,  during  which  he  was  to  travel  abroad 
on  a  meagre  pittance,  and  somehow  prove  his  ability 
to  increase  it  by  his  pen.  The  quaint  conditions  of  the 
test  struck  me  first:  it  seemed  about  as  conclusive 
as  a  mediaeval  'ordeal.'  Then  I  was  touched  by 
her  having  sent  him  to  me.  I  had  always  wanted  to 
do  her  some  service,  to  justify  myself  in  my  own 
eyes  rather  than  hers;  and  here  was  a  beautiful 
occasion. 

"  I  imagine  it's  safe  to  lay  down  the  general  principle 
that  predestined  geniuses  don't,  as  a  rule,  appear  be- 
fore one  in  the  spring  sunshine  of  the  Forum  looking 
like  one  of  its  banished  gods.  At  any  rate,  poor  Noyes 
wasn't  a  predestined  genius.  But  he  was  beautiful  to 
see,  and  charming  as  a  comrade.  It  was  only  when  he 
began  to  talk  literature  that  my  heart  failed  me.  I  knew 
all  the  symptoms  so  well — the  things  he  had  'in  him,' 
and  the  things  outside  him  that  impinged !  There's  the 
real  test,  after  all.  It  was  always — punctually,  inevita- 
bly, with  the  inexorableness  of  a  mechanical  law — it 
was  always  the  wrong  thing  that  struck  him.  I  grew 
to  find  a  certain  fascination  in  deciding  in  advance 
[  260  ] 


THE   EYES 

exactly  which  wrong  thing  he'd  select;  and  I  acquired 
an  astonishing  skill  at  the  game  .  .  . 

"The  worst  of  it  was  that  his  betise  wasn't  of  the  too 
obvious  sort.  Ladies  who  met  him  at  picnics  thought 
him  intellectual;  and  even  at  dinners  he  passed  for 
clever.  I,  who  had  him  under  the  microscope,  fancied 
now  and  then  that  he  might  develop  some  kind  of  a 
slim  talent,  something  that  he  could  make  'do'  ai>J  be 
happy  on;  and  wasn't  that,  after  all,  what  I  was  con- 
cerned with  ?  He  was  so  charming — he  continued  «o 
be  so  charming — that  he  called  forth  all  my  charity  in 
support  of  this  argument;  and  for  the  first  few  months 
I  really  believed  there  was  a  chance  for  him  .  .  . 

"Those  months  were  delightful.  Noyes  was  constantly 
with  me,  and  the  more  I  saw  of  him  the  better  I  liked 
him.  His  stupidity  was  a  natural  grace — it  was  as  beau- 
tiful, really,  as  his  eyelashes.  And  he  was  so  gay,  so 
affectionate,  and  so  happy  with  me,  that  telling  him 
the  truth  would  have  been  about  as  pleasant  as  slitting 
the  throat  of  some  gentle  animal.  At  first  I  used  to 
wonder  what  had  put  into  that  radiant  head  the  de- 
testable delusion  that  it  held  a  brain.  Then  I  began  to 
see  that  it  was  simply  protective  mimicry — an  instinc- 
tive ruse  to  get  away  from  family  life  and  an  office  desk. 
Not  that  Gilbert  didn't — dear  lad! — believe  in  him- 
self. There  wasn't  a  trace  of  hypocrisy  in  him.  He  was 
sure  that  his  'call'  was  irresistible,  while  to  me  it  was 
[261  ] 


THE   EYES 

the  saving  grace  of  his  situation  that  it  wasn't,  and 
that  a  little  money,  a  little  leisure,  a  little  pleasure 
would  have  turned  him  into  an  inoffensive  idler. 
Unluckily,  however,  there  was  no  hope  of  money,  and 
with  the  alternative  of  the  office  desk  before  him  he 
couldn't  postpone  his  attempt  at  literature.  The  stuff 
he  turned  out  was  deplorable,  and  I  see  now  that  I 
knew  it  from  the  first.  Still,  the  absurdity  of  deciding 
a  inan's  whole  future  on  a  first  trial  seemed  to  justify 
me  in  withholding  my  verdict,  and  perhaps  even  in 
encouraging  him  a  little,  on  the  ground  that  the  human 
plant  generally  needs  warmth  to  flower. 

"At  any  rate,  I  proceeded  on  that  principle,  and 
carried  it  to  the  point  of  getting  his  term  of  probation 
extended.  When  I  left  Rome  he  went  with  me,  and  we 
idled  away  a  delicious  summer  between  Capri  and 
Venice.  I  said  to  myself:  'If  he  has  anything  in  him,  it 
will  come  out  now,  and  it  did.  He  was  never  more 
enchanting  and  enchanted.  There  were  moments  of 
our  pilgrimage  when  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 
seemed  actually  to  pass  into  his  face — but  only  tc  issue 
forth  in  a  flood  of  the  palest  ink  .  .  . 

"Well,  the  time  came  to  turn  off  the  tap;  and  I  knew 
there  was  no  hand  but  mine  to  do  it.  We  were  back  in 
Rome,  and  I  had  taken  him  to  stay  with  me,  not  want- 
ing him  to  be  alone  in  his  pension  when  he  had  to  face 
the  necessity  of  renouncing  his  ambition.  I  hadn't,  of 
[  262  ] 


THE   EYES 

course,  relied  solely  on  my  own  judgment  in  deciding 
to  advise  him  to  drop  literature.  I  had  sent  his  stuff 
to  various  people — editors  and  critics — and  they  had 
always  sent  it  back  with  the  same  chilling  lack  of 
comment.  Really  there  was  nothing  on  earth  to 
say — 

"I  confess  I  never  felt  more  shabbily  than  I  did  on 
the  day  when  I  decided  to  have  it  out  with  Gilbert. 
It  was  well  enough  to  tell  myself  that  it  was  my  duty 
to  knock  the  poor  boy's  hopes  into  splinters — but  I'd 
like  to  know  what  act  of  gratuitous  cruelty  hasn't  been 
justified  on  that  plea  ?  I've  always  shrunk  from  usurping 
the  functions  of  Providence,  and  when  I  have  to  exer- 
cise them  I  decidedly  prefer  that  it  shouldn't  be  on  an 
errand  of  destruction.  Besides,  in  the  last  issue,  who 
was  I  to  decide,  even  after  a  year's  trial,  if  poor  Gilbert 
had  it  in  him  or  not  ? 

"The  more  I  looked  at  the  part  I'd  resolved  to  play, 
the  less  I  liked  it;  and  I  liked  it  still  less  when  Gilbert 
sat  opposite  me,  with  his  head  thrown  back  in  the  lamp- 
light, just  as  Phil's  is  now  .  .  .  I'd  been  going  over  his 
last  manuscript,  and  he  knew  it,  and  he  knew  that 
his  future  hung  on  my  verdict — we'd  tacitly  agreed  to 
that.  The  manuscript  lay  between  us,  on  my  table — 
a  novel,  his  first  novel,  if  you  please! — and  he  reached 
over  and  laid  his  hand  on  it,  and  looked  up  at  me  with 
all  his  life  in  the  look. 

[  263  ] 


THE   EYES 

"I  stood  up  and  cleared  my  throat,  trying  to  keep 
my  eyes  away  from  his  face  and  on  the  manuscript. 

"'The  fact  is,  my  dear  Gilbert,'  I  began— 

"I  saw  him  turn  pale,  but  he  was  up  and  facing 
me  in  an  instant. 

"'Oh,  look  here,  don't  take  on  so,  my  dear  fellow! 
I'm  not  so  awfully  cut  up  as  all  that!'  His  hands  were 
on  my  shoulders,  and  he  was  laughing  down  on  me 
from  his  full  height,  with  a  kind  of  mortally-stricken 
gaiety  that  drove  the  knife  into  my  side. 

"He  was  too  beautifully  brave  for  me  to  keep  up 
any  humbug  about  my  duty.  And  it  came  over  me  sud- 
denly how  I  should  hurt  others  in  hurting  him:  myself 
first,  since  sending  him  home  meant  losing  him;  but 
more  particularly  poor  Alice  Nowell,  to  whom  I  had 
so  longed  to  prove  my  good  faith  and  my  desire  to 
serve  her.  It  really  seemed  like  failing  her  twice  to  fail 
Gilbert— 

"But  my  intuition  was  like  one  of  those  lightning 
flashes  that  encircle  the  whole  horizon,  and  in  the  same 
instant  I  saw  what  I  might  be  letting  myself  in  for  if 
I  didn't  tell  the  truth.  I  said  to  myself:  'I  shall  have 
him  for  life' — and  I'd  never  yet  seen  any  one,  man  or 
woman,  whom  I  was  quite  sure  of  wanting  on  those 
terms.  Well,  this  impulse  of  egotism  decided  me.  I  was 
ashamed  of  it,  and  to  get  away  from  it  I  took  a  leap 
that  landed  me  straight  in  Gilbert's  arms. 
[  264  ] 


THE   EYES 

"'The  thing's  all  right,  and  you're  all  wrong!'  I 
shouted  up  at  him;  and  as  he  hugged  me,  and  I  laughed 
and  shook  in  his  clutch,  I  had  for  a  minute  the  sense  of 
self-complacency  that  is  supposed  to  attend  the  footsteps 
of  the  just.  Hang  it  all,  making  people  happy  has  its 
charms — 

"Gilbert,  of  course,  was  for  celebrating  his  emanci- 
pation in  some  spectacular  manner;  but  I  sent  him 
away  alone  to  explode  his  emotions,  and  went  to  bed 
to  sleep  off  mine.  As  I  undressed  I  began  to  wonder 
what  their  after-taste  would  be — so  many  of  the  finest 
don't  keep!  Still,  I  wasn't  sorry,  and  I  meant  to  empty 
the  bottle,  even  if  it  did  turn  a  trifle  flat. 

"After  I  got  into  bed  I  lay  for  a  long  time  smiling 
at  the  memory  of  his  eyes — his  blissful  eyes.  .  .  Then 
I  fell  asleep,  and  when  I  woke  the  room  was  deathly 
cold,  and  I  sat  up  with  a  jerk — and  there  were  the  oilier 
eyes  .  .  . 

"It  was  three  years  since  I'd  seen  them,  but  I'd 
thought  of  them  so  often  that  I  fancied  they  could  never 
take  me  unawares  again.  Now,  with  their  red  sneer  on 
me,  I  knew  that  I  had  never  really  believed  they  would 
come  back,  and  that  I  was  as  defenceless  as  ever  against 
them  ...  As  before,  it  was  the  insane  irrelevance  of 
their  coming  that  made  it  so  horrible.  What  the  deuce 
were  they  after,  to  leap  out  at  me  at  such  a  time  ?  I 
had  lived  more  or  less  carelessly  in  the  years  since  I'd 
[  265  ] 


THE   EYES 

seen  them,  though  my  worst  indiscretions  were  not 
dark  enough  to  invite  the  searchings  of  their  infernal 
glare;  but  at  this  particular  moment  I  was  really  in  what 
might  have  been  called  a  state  of  grace;  and  I  can't  tell 
you  how  the  fact  added  to  their  horror  .  .  . 

"But  it's  not  enough  to  say  they  were  as  bad  as  be- 
fore: they  were  worse.  Worse  by  just  so  much  as  I'd 
learned  of  life  in  the  interval;  by  all  the  damnable  impli- 
cations my  wider  experience  read  into  them.  I  saw  now 
what  I  hadn't  seen  before:  that  they  were  eyes  which 
had  grown  hideous  gradually,  which  had  built  up  their 
baseness  coral-wise,  bit  by  bit,  out  of  a  series  of  small 
turpitudes  slowly  accumulated  through  the  industrious 
years.  Yes — it  came  to  me  that  what  made  them  so 
bad  was  that  they'd  grown  bad  so  slowly  .  .  . 

"There  they  hung  in  the  darkness,  their  swollen  lids 
dropped  across  the  little  watery  bulbs  rolling  loose  in 
the  orbits,  and  the  puff  of  flesh  making  a  muddy 
shadow  underneath — and  as  their  stare  moved  with  my 
movements,  there  came  over  me  a  sense  of  their  tacit 
complicity,  of  a  deep  hidden  understanding  between  us 
that  was  worse  than  the  first  shock  of  their  strangeness. 
Not  that  I  understood  them;  but  that  they  made  it  so 
clear  that  some  day  I  should  .  .  .  Yes,  that  was  the 
worst  part  of  it,  decidedly;  and  it  was  the  feeling  that 
became  stronger  each  time  they  came  back  .  .  . 

"For  they  got  into  the  damnable  habit  of  coming 
[  266  ] 


THE   EYES 

back.  They  reminded  me  of  vampires  with  a  taste  for 
young  flesh,  they  seemed  so  to  gloat  over  the  taste  of  a 
good  conscience.  Every  night  for  a  month  they  came 
to  claim  their  morsel  of  mine:  since  I'd  made  Gilbert 
rappy  they  simply  wouldn't  loosen  their  fangs.  The 
coincidence  almost  made  me  hate  him,  poor  lad, 
fortuitous  as  I  felt  it  to  be.  I  puzzled  over  it  a  good 
deal,  but  couldn't  find  any  hint  of  an  explanation  except 
in  the  chance  of  his  association  with  Alice  Nowell. 
But  then  the  eyes  had  let  up  on  me  the  moment  I  had 
abandoned  her,  so  they  could  hardly  be  the  emissaries 
of  a  woman  scorned,  even  if  one  could  have  pictured 
poor  Alice  charging  such  spirits  to  avenge  her.  That  set 
me  thinking,  and  I  began  to  wonder  if  they  would  let 
up  on  me  if  I  abandoned  Gilbert.  The  temptation  was 
insidious,  and  I  had  to  stiffen  myself  against  it;  but 
really,  dear  boy!  he  was  too  charming  to  be  sacrificed 
to  such  demons.  And  so,  after  all,  I  never  found  out 
what  they  wanted  .  .  ." 


m 

THE  fire  crumbled,  sending  up  a  flash  which  threw 
into  relief  the  narrator's  gnarled  face  under  its  grey- 
black  stubble.  Pressed  into  the  hollow  of  the  chair- 
back,  it  stood  out  an  instant  like  an  intaglio  of  yellowish 
red-veined  stone,  with  spots  of  enamel  for  the  eyes;  then 
[  267  ] 


THE   EYES 

the  fire  sank  and  it  became  once  more  a  dim  Rem- 
brandtish  blur. 

Phil  Frenham,  sitting  in  a  low  chair  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  hearth,  one  long  arm  propped  on  the  table 
behind  him,  one  hand  supporting  his  thrown-back 
head,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  old  friend's  face,  had 
not  moved  since  the  tale  began.  He  continued  to  main- 
tain his  silent  immobility  after  Culwin  had  ceased  to 
speak,  and  it  was  I  who,  with  a  vague  sense  of  dis- 
appointment at  the  sudden  drop  of  the  story,  finally 
asked:  "But  how  long  did  you  keep  on  seeing  them?" 

Culwin,  so  sunk  into  his  chair  that  he  seemed  like  a 
heap  of  his  own  empty  clothes,  stirred  a  little,  as  if  in 
surprise  at  my  question.  He  appeared  to  have  half- 
forgotten  what  he  had  been  telling  us. 

"How  long?  Oh,  off  and  on  all  that  winter.  It  was 
infernal.  I  never  got  used  to  them.  I  grew  really 
ill." 

Frenham  shifted  his  attitude,  anql  as  he  did  so  his 
elbow  struck  against  a  small  mirror  in  a  bronze  frame 
standing  on  the  table  behind  him.  He  turned  and 
changed  its  angle  slightly;  then  he  resumed  his  former 
attitude,  his  dark  head  thrown  back  on  his  lifted  palm, 
his  eyes  intent  on  Culwin's  face.  Something  in  his 
silent  gaze  embarrassed  me,  and  as  if  to  divert  atten- 
tion from  it  I  pressed  on  with  another  question: 

"And  you  never  tried  sacrificing  Noyes?" 
[  268  ] 


THE   EYES 

"Oh,  no.  The  fact  is  I  didn't  have  to.  He  did  it  for 
me,  poor  boy!" 

"Did  it  for  you  ?  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"He  wore  me  out — wore  everybody  out.  He  kept 
on  pouring  out  his  lamentable  twaddle,  and  hawking 
it  up  and  down  the  place  till  he  became  a  thing  of 
terror.  I  tried  to  wean  him  from  writing — oh,  ever  so 
gently,  you  understand,  by  throwing  him  with  agreeable 
people,  giving  him  a  chance  to  make  himself  felt,  to 
come  to  a  sense  of  what  he  really  had  to  give.  I'd  fore- 
seen this  solution  from  the  beginning — felt  sure  that, 
once  the  first  ardour  of  authorship  was  quenched,  he'd 
drop  into  his  place  as  a  charming  parasitic  thing,  the 
kind  of  chronic  Cherubino  for  whom,  in  old  societies, 
there's  always  a  seat  at  table,  and  a  shelter  behind  the 
ladies'  skirts.  I  saw  him  take  his  place  as  'the  poet': 
the  poet  who  doesn't  write.  One  knows  the  type  in 
every  drawing-room.  Living  in  that  way  doesn't  cost 
much — I'd  worked  it  all  out  in  my  mind,  and  felt  sure 
that,  with  a  little  help,  he  could  manage  it  for  the  next 
few  years;  and  meanwhile  he'd  be  sure  to  marry.  I 
saw  him  married  to  a  widow,  rather  older,  with  a  good 
cook  and  a  well-run  house.  And  I  actually  had  my 
eye  on  the  widow  .  .  .  Meanwhile  I  did  everything  to 
help  the  transition — lent  him  money  to  ease  his  con- 
science, introduced  him  to  pretty  women  to  make  him 
forget  his  vows.  But  nothing  would  do  him:  he  had  but 
[  269  ] 


THE   EYES 

one  idea  in  his  beautiful  obstinate  head.  He  wanted 
the  laurel  and  not  the  rose,  and  he  kept  on  repeating 
Gautier's  axiom,  and  battering  and  filing  at  his  limp 
prose  till  he'd  spread  it  out  over  Lord  knows  how  many 
hundred  pages.  Now  and  then  he  would  send  a  barrelful 
to  a  publisher,  and  of  course  it  would  always  come  back. 

"At  first  it  didn't  matter — he  thought  he  was  'mis- 
understood.' He  took  the  attitudes  of  genius,  and  when- 
ever an  opus  came  home  he  wrote  another  to  keep  it 
company.  Then  he  had  a  reaction  of  despair,  and 
accused  me  of  deceiving  him,  and  Lord  knows  what. 
I  got  angry  at  that,  and  told  him  it  was  he  who  had 
deceived  himself.  He'd  come  to  me  determined  to  write, 
and  I'd  done  my  best  to  help  him.  That  was  the  extent 
of  my  offence,  and  I'd  done  it  for  his  cousin's  sake, 
not  his. 

"That  seemed  to  strike  home,  and  he  didn't  answer 
for  a  minute.  Then  he  said:  'My  time's  up  and  my 
money's  up.  What  do  you  think  I'd  better  do?' 

'"I  think  you'd  better  not  be  an  ass,'  I  said. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  being  an  ass?'  he  asked. 

"I  took  a  letter  from  my  desk  and  held  it  out  to 
him. 

"I  mean  refusing  this  offer  of  Mrs.  Ellinger's:  to  be 
her  secretary  at  a  salary  of  five  thousand  dollars.  There 
may  be  a  lot  more  in  it  than  that.' 

"He  flung  out  his  hand  with  a  violence  that  struck 
[  270  ] 


THE   EYES 

the  letter  from  mine.  'Oh,  I  know  well  enough  what's 
in  it!'  he  said,  red  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"'And  what's  the  answer,  if  you  know?'  I  asked. 

"He  made  none  at  the  minute,  but  turned  away 
slowly  to  the  door.  There,  with  his  hand  on  the  thresh- 
old, he  stopped  to  say,  almost  under  his  breath:  'Then 
you  really  think  my  stuff's  no  good  ?' 

"I  was  tired  and  exasperated,  and  I  laughed.  I  don't 
defend  my  laugh — it  was  in  wretched  taste.  But  I  must 
plead  in  extenuation  that  the  boy  was  a  fool,  and  that 
I'd  done  my  best  for  him — I  really  had. 

"He  went  out  of  the  room,  shutting  the  door  quietly 
after  him.  That  afternoon  I  left  for  Frascati,  where  I'd 
promised  to  spend  the  Sunday  with  some  friends.  I 
was  glad  to  escape  from  Gilbert,  and  by  the  same  token, 
as  I  learned  that  night,  I  had  also  escaped  from  the 
eyes.  I  dropped  into  the  same  lethargic  sleep  that  had 
come  to  me  before  when  I  left  off  seeing  them;  and 
when  I  woke  the  next  morning,  in  my  peaceful  room 
above  the  ilexes,  I  felt  the  utter  weariness  and  deep 
relief  that  always  followed  on  that  sleep.  I  put  in 
two  blessed  nights  at  Frascati,  and  when  I  got  back  to 
my  rooms  in  Rome  I  found  that  Gilbert  had  gone  .  .  . 
Oh,  nothing  tragic  had  happened — the  episode  never 
rose  to  that.  He'd  simply  packed  his  manuscripts  and 
left  for  America — for  his  family  and  the  Wall  Street 
desk.  He  left  a  decent  enough  note  to  tell  me  of  his 
[271  ] 


THE   EYES 

decision,  and  behaved  altogether,  in  the  circumstances, 
as  little  like  a  fool  as  it's  possible  for  a  fool  to 
behave . .  ." 

IV 

CULWIN  paused  again,  and  Frenham  still  sat  motion- 
less, the  dusky  contour  of  his  young  head  reflected  in 
the  mirror  at  his  back. 

"And  what  became  of  Noyes  afterward?"  I  finally 
asked,  still  disquieted  by  a  sense  of  incompleteness,  by 
the  need  of  some  connecting  thread  between  the  parallel 
lines  of  the  tale. 

Culwin  twitched  his  shoulders.  "Oh,  nothing  became 
of  him — because  he  became  nothing.  There  could  be 
no  question  of  'becoming'  about  it.  He  vegetated  in  an 
office,  I  believe,  and  finally  got  a  clerkship  in  a  consu- 
late, and  married  drearily  in  China.  I  saw  him  once  in 
Hong  Kong,  years  afterward.  He  was  fat  and  hadn't 
shaved.  I  was  told  he  drank.  He  didn't  recognise 
me." 

"And  the  eyes  ?"  I  asked,  after  another  pause  which 
Frenham's  continued  silence  made  oppressive. 

Culwin,  stroking  his  chin,  blinked  at  me  meditatively 
through  the  shadows.  "I  never  saw  them  after  my  last 
talk  with  Gilbert.  Put  two  and  two  together  if  you  can. 
For  my  part,  I  haven't  found  the  link." 

He  rose,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  walked  stiffly 
[  272  ] 


THE   EYES 

over  to  the  table  on  which  reviving  drinks  had  been  set 
out. 

"You  must  be  parched  after  this  dry  tale.  Here,  help 
yourself,  my  dear  fellow.  Here,  Phil —  "  He  turned 
back  to  the  hearth. 

Frenham  made  no  response  to  his  host's  hospitable 
summons.  He  still  sat  in  his  low  chair  without  moving, 
but  as  Culwin  advanced  toward  him,  their  eyes  met 
in  a  long  look;  after  which  the  young  man,  turning 
suddenly,  flung  his  arms  across  the  table  behind  him, 
and  dropped  his  face  upon  them. 

Culwin,  at  the  unexpected  gesture,  stopped  short, 
a  flush  on  his  face. 

"Phil — what  the  deuce?  Why,  have  the  eyes  scared 
you  ?  My  dear  boy — my  dear  fellow — I  never  had  such 
a  tribute  to  my  literary  ability,  never!" 

He  broke  into  a  chuckle  at  the  thought,  and  halted 
on  the  hearth-rug,  his  hands  still  in  his  pockets,  gaz- 
ing down  at  the  youth's  bowed  head.  Then,  as  Fren- 
ham still  made  no  answer,  he  moved  a  step  or  two 
nearer. 

"Cheer  up,  my  dear  Phil!  It's  years  since  I've  seen 
them — apparently  I've  done  nothing  lately  bad  enough 
to  call  them  out  of  chaos.  Unless  my  present  evocation 
of  them  has  made  you  see  them;  which  would  be  their 
worst  stroke  yet!" 

His  bantering  appeal  quivered  off  into  an  uneasy 
[  273  ] 


THE   EYES 

laugh,  and  he  moved  still  nearer,  bending  over  Fren- 
ham,  and  laying  his  gouty  hands  on  the  lad's  shoulders. 

"Phil,  my  dear  boy,  really — what's  thK, matter? 
Why  don't  you  answer?  Have  you  seen  the  eyes?" 

Frenham's  face  was  still  hidden,  and  from  where  I 
stood  behind  Culwin  I  saw  the  latter,  as  if  under  the 
rebuff  of  this  unaccountable  attitude,  draw  back  slowly 
from  his  friend.  As  he  did  so,  the  light  of  the  lamp 
on  the  table  fell  full  on  his  congested  face,  and  I  caught 
its  reflection  in  the  mirror  behind  Frenham's  head. 

Culwin  saw  the  reflection  also.  He  paused,  his  face 
level  with  the  mirror,  as  if  scarcely  recognising  the  coun- 
tenance in  it  as  his  own.  But  as  he  looked  his  expression 
gradually  changed,  and  for  an  appreciable  space  of 
time  he  and  the  image  in  the  glass  confronted  each 
other  with  a  glare  of  slowly  gathering  hate.  Then  Cul- 
win let  go  on  Frenham's  shoulders,  and  drew  back  a 
step  .  . . 

Frenham,  his  face  still  hidden,  did  not  stir. 


[  274  ] 


THE    BLOND    BEAST 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 


IT  had  been  almost  too  easy — that  was  young  Mill- 
ner's  first  feeling,  as  he  stood  again  on  the  Spence 
doorstep,  the  great  moment  of  his  interview  behind 
him,  and  Fifth  Avenue  rolling  its  grimy  Pacolus  at 
his  feet. 

Halting  here  in  the  winter  light,  with  the  clang  of 
the  vestibule  doors  in  his  ears,  and  his  eyes  carried  down 
the  perspective  of  the  packed  interminable  thorough- 
fare, he  even  dared  to  remember  Rastignac's  apostrophe 
to  Paris,  and  to  hazard  recklessly  under  his  small  fair 
moustache:  "Who  knows?" 

He,  Hugh  Millner,  at  any  rate,  knew  a  good  deal 
already:  a  good  deal  more  than  he  had  imagined  it 
possible  to  learn  in  half  an  hour's  talk  with  a  man  like 
Orlando  G.  Spence;  and  the  loud-rumouring  city  spread 
out  before  him  seemed  to  grin  like  an  accomplice  who 
knew  the  rest. 

A  gust  of  wind,  whirling  down  from  the  dizzy  height 
of  the  building  on  the  next  corner,  drove  through  his 
shabby  overcoat  and  compelled  him  to  clutch  hurriedly 
[  277  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

at  his  hat.  It  was  a  bitter  January  day,  a  day  of  fierce 
light  and  air,  when  the  sunshine  cut  like  icicles  and  the 
wind  sucked  one  into  black  gulfs  at  the  street  corners. 
But  Millner's  complacency  was  like  a  warm  lining  to 
his  coat,  and  having  steadied  his  hat  he  continued  to 
stand  on  the  Spence  threshold,  lost  in  the  vision  re- 
vealed to  him  from  the  Pisgah  of  its  marble  steps.  Yes, 
it  was  wonderful  what  the  vision  showed  him.  .  .  In  his 
absorption  he  might  have  frozen  fast  to  the  doorstep  if 
the  Rhadamanthine  portals  behind  him  had  not  sud- 
denly opened  to  let  out  a  slim  fur-coated  figure,  the 
figure,  as  he  perceived,  of  the  youth  whom  he  had 
caught  in  the  act  of  withdrawal  as  he  entered  Mr. 
Spence 's  study,  and  whom  the  latter,  with  a  wave  of 
his  affable  hand,  had  detained  to  introduce  as  "my 
son  Draper." 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  odd  friendliness  of  the 
whole  scene  that  the  great  man  should  have  thought  it 
worth  while  to  call  back  and  name  his  heir  to  a  mere 
humble  applicant  like  Millner;  and  that  the  heir 
should  shed  on  him,  from  a  pale  high-browed  face,  a 
smile  of  such  deprecating  kindness.  It  was  character- 
istic, equally,  of  Millner,  that  he  should  at  once  mark 
the  narrowness  of  the  shoulders  sustaining  this  ingenu- 
ous head;  a  narrowness,  as  he  now  observed,  imper- 
fectly concealed  by  the  fur  collar  of  young  Spence's  ex- 
pensive and  badly  cut  coat.  But  the  face  took  on,  as 
[  278  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

the  youth  smiled  his  pleasure  at  their  second  meeting, 
a  look  of  almost  plaintive  goodwill:  the  kind  of  look 
that  Millner  scorned  and  yet  could  never  quite  resist. 

"Mr.  Millner?  Are  you — er — waiting?"  the  lad 
asked,  with  an  intention  of  serviceableness  that  was 
like  a  finer  echo  of  his  father's  cordiality. 

"For  my  motor?  No,"  Millner  jested  in  his  frank 
free  voice.  "The  fact  is,  I  was  just  standing  here  lost 
in  the  contemplation  of  my  luck" — and  as  his  com- 
panion's pale  blue  eyes  seemed  to  shape  a  question: 
"my  extraordinary  luck,"  he  explained,  "in  having 
been  engaged  as  your  father's  secretary." 

"Oh,"  the  other  rejoined,  with  a  faint  colour  in  his 
cheek.  "I'm  so  glad,"  he  murmured;  "but  I  was 
sure — "  He  stopped,  and  the  twTo  looked  kindly  at  each 
other. 

Millner  averted  his  gaze  first,  almost  fearful  of  its 
betraying  the  added  sense  of  his  own  strength  and 
dexterity  which  he  drew  from  the  contrast  of  the  other's 
frailness. 

"Sure?  How  could  any  one  be  sure?  I  don't  believe 
in  it  yet!"  he  laughed  out  in  the  irony  of  his  triumph. 

The  boy's  words  did  not  sound  like  a  mere  civility — 
Millner  felt  in  them  an  homage  to  his  power. 

"Oh,  yes:  I  was  sure,  young  Draper  repeated. 
"Sure  as  soon  as  I  saw  you,  I  mean."  , 

Millner  tingled  again  with  this  tribute  to  his  physical 
[  279  1 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

straightness  and  bloom.  Yes,  he  looked  his  part,  hang 
it — he  looked  it! 

But  his  companion  still  lingered,  a  shy  sociability 
in  his  eye. 

"If  you're  walking,  then,  may  I  go  along  a  little 
way?"  And  he  nodded  southward  down  the  shabby 
gaudy  avenue. 

That,  again,  was  part  of  the  wild  comedy  of  the  hour 
— that  Millner  should  descend  the  Spence  steps  at 
young  Spence's  side,  and  stroll  down  Fifth  Avenue  with 
him  at  the  proudest  moment  of  the  afternoon;  O.  G. 
Spence's  secretary  walking  abroad  with  O.  G.  Spence's 
heir!  He  had  the  scientific  detachment  to  pull  out  his 
watch  and  furtively  note  the  hour.  Yes — it  was  exactly 
forty  minutes  since  he  had  rung  the  Spence  door-bell 
and  handed  his  card  to  a  gelid  footman,  who,  openly 
sceptical  of  his  claim  to  be  received,  had  left  him  un- 
ceremoniously planted  on  the  cold  tessellations  of  the 
vestibule. 

("Some  day,"  Millner  grinned  to  himself,  "I  think 
I'll  take  that  footman  as  furnace-man — or  to  do  the 
boots."  And  he  pictured  his  marble  palace  rising  from 
the  earth  to  form  the  mausoleum  of  a  footman's  pride.) 

Only  forty  minutes  ago!  And  now  he  had  his  oppor- 
tunity fast!  And  he  never  meant  to  let  it  go!  It  was  in- 
credible, what  had  happened  in  the  interval.  He  had 
gone  up  the  Spence  steps  an  unknown  young  man,  out 
[  280  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

of  a  job,  and  with  no  substantial  hope  of  getting  into 
one:  a  needy  young  man  with  a  mother  and  two 
sisters  to  be  helped,  and  a  lengthening  figure  of  debt 
that  stood  by  his  bed  through  the  anxious  nights.  And 
he  went  down  the  steps  with  his  present  assured,  and 
his  future  lit  by  the  hues  of  the  rainbow  above  the  pot 
of  gold.  Certainly  a  fellow  who  made  his  way  at  that 
rate  had  it  "in  him,"  and  could  afford  to  trust  his  star. 

Descending  from  this  joyous  flight  he  stooped  his 
ear  to  the  discourse  of  young  Spence. 

"My  father'll  work  you  rather  hard,  you  know:  but 
you  look  as  if  you  wouldn't  mind  that." 

Millner  pulled  up  his  inches  with  the  self-conscious- 
ness of  the  man  who  has  none  to  waste.  "Oh,  no,  I 
shan't  mind  that:  I  don't  mind  any  amount  of  work  if 
it  leads  to  something." 

"Just  so,"  Draper  Spence  assented  eagerly.  "That's 
what  I  feel.  And  you'll  find  that  whatever  my  father 
undertakes  leads  to  such  awfully  fine  things." 

Millner  tightened  his  lips  on  a  grin.  He  was  thinking 
only  of  where  the  work  would  lead  him,  not  in  the  least 
of  where  it  might  land  the  eminent  Orlando  G.  Speoce. 
But  he  looked  at  his  companion  sympathetically. 

"You're  a  philanthropist  like  your  father,  I  see?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  They  had  paused  at  a  crossing, 
and  young  Draper,  with  a  dubious  air,  stood  striking 
his  agate-headed  stick  against  the  curb-stone.  "I  be- 
[  281  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

lieve  in  a  purpose,  don't  you?"  he  asked,  lifting  his 
blue  eyes  suddenly  to  Millner's  face. 

"A  purpose?  I  should  rather  say  so!  I  believe  in 
nothing  else,"  cried  Millner,  feeling  as  if  his  were 
something  he  could  grip  in  his  hand  and  swing  like 
a  club. 

Young  Spence  seemed  relieved.  "Yes — I  tie  up  to 
that.  There  is  a  Purpose.  And  so,  after  all,  even  if  I 
don't  agree  with  my  father  on  minor  points  ..."  He 
coloured  quickly,  and  looked  again  at  Millner.  "I 
should  like  to  talk  to  you  about  this  some  day." 

Millner  smothered  another  smile.  "We'll  have  lots 
of  talks,  I  hope." 

"Oh,  if  you  can  spare  the  time — !"  said  Draper, 
almost  humbly. 

"Why,  I  shall  be  there  on  tap!" 

"For  father,  not  me."  Draper  hesitated,  with  another 
self-confessing  smile.  "Father  thinks  I  talk  too  much — 
that  I  keep  going  in  and  out  of  things.  He  doesn't  be- 
lieve in  analysing:  he  thinks  it's  destructive.  But  it 
hasn't  destroyed  my  ideals."  He  looked  wistfully  up 
and  down  the  clanging  street.  "And  that's  the  main 
thing,  isn't  it  ?  I  mean,  that  one  should  have  an  Ideal." 
He  turned  back  almost  gaily  to  Millner.  "I  suspect 
you're  a  revolutionist  too!" 

"Revolutionist?  Rather!  I  belong  to  the  Red  Syndi- 
cate and  the  Black  Hand!"  Millner  joyfully  assented. 
[  282  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

Young  Draper  chuckled  at  the  enormity  of  the  joke. 
"First  rate!  We'll  have  incendiary  meetings!"  He  pulled 
an  elaborately  armorial  watch  from  under  his  enfolding 
furs.  "I'm  so  sorry,  but  I  must  say  good-bye — this  is 
my  street,"  he  explained. 

Millner,  with  a  faint  twinge  of  envy,  glanced  across 
at  the  colonnaded  marble  edifice  on  the  farther  corner. 
"Going  to  the  club?"  he  said  carelessly. 

His  companion  looked  surprised.  "Oh,  no:  I  never 
go  tfiere.  It's  too  boring."  And  he  jerked  out,  after 
one  of  the  pauses  in  which  he  seemed  rather  breathlessly 
to  measure  the  chances  of  his  listener's  indulgence: 
"I'm  just  going  over  to  a  little  Bible  Class  I  have  in 
Tenth  Avenue." 

Millner,  for  a  moment  or  two,  stood  watching  the  slim 
figure  wind  its  way  through  the  mass  of  vehicles  to  the 
opposite  corner;  then  he  pursued  his  own  course  down 
Fifth  Avenue,  measuring  his  steps  to  the  rhythmic 
refrain:  "It's  too  easy — it's  too  easy — it's  too  easy!" 

His  own  destination  being  the  small  faded  flat  off 
University  Place  where  three  tender  females  awaited 
the  result  of  his  mission,  he  had  time,  on  the  way  home, 
after  abandoning  himself  to  a  general  sense  of  triumph, 
to  dwell  specifically  on  the  various  aspects  of  his 
achievement.  Viewed  materially  and  practically,  it 
was  a  thing  to  be  proud  of;  yet  it  was  chiefly  on  aesthetic 
[  283  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

grounds — because  he  had  done  so  exactly  what  he 
had  set  out  to  do — that  he  glowed  with  pride  at  the 
afternoon's  work.  For,  after  all,  any  young  man  with 
the  proper  "pull"  might  have  applied  to  Orlando  G. 
Spence  for  the  post  of  secretary,  and  might  even  have 
penetrated  as  far  as  the  great  man's  study;  but  that  he, 
Hugh  Millner,  should  not  only  have  forced  his  way  to 
this  fastness,  but  have  established,  within  a  short  half 
hour,  his  right  to  remain  there  permanently:  well,  this,  if 
it  proved  anything,  proved  that  the  first  rule  of  success 
was  to  know  how  to  live  up  to  one's  principles. 

"One  must  have  a  plan — one  must  have  a  plan," 
the  young  man  murmured,  looking  with  pity  at  the 
vague  faces  which  the  crowd  bore  past  him,  and  feeling 
almost  impelled  to  detain  them  and  expound  his 
doctrine.  But  the  planlessness  of  average  human  nature 
was  of  course  the  measure  of  his  opportunity;  and  he 
smiled  to  think  that  every  purposeless  face  he  met  was 
a  guarantee  of  his  own  advancement,  a  rung  in  the 
ladder  he  meant  to  climb. 

Yes,  the  whole  secret  of  success  was  to  know  what 
one  wanted  to  do,  and  not  to  be  afraid  to  do  it.  His  own 
history  was  proving  that  already.  He  had  not  been  afraid 
to  give  up  his  small  but  safe  position  in  a  real-estate 
office  for  the  precarious  adventure  of  a  private  secre- 
taryship; and  his  first  glimpse  of  his  new  employer  had 
convinced  him  that  he  had  not  mistaken  his  calling. 
[284] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

When  one  has  a  "way"  with  one — as,  in  all  modesty, 
Millner  knew  he  had — not  to  utilise  it  is  a  stupid 
waste  of  force.  And  when  he  learned  that  Orlando  G. 
Spence  was  in  search  of  a  private  secretary  who  should 
be  able  to  give  him  intelligent  assistance  in  the  execu- 
tion of  his  philanthropic  schemes,  the  young  man  felt 
that  his  hour  had  come.  It  was  no  part  of  his  plan  to 
associate  himself  with  one  of  the  masters  of  finance: 
he  had  a  notion  that  minnows  who  go  to  a  whale  to 
learn  how  to  grow  bigger  are  likely  to  be  swallowed 
in  the  process.  The  opportunity  of  a  clever  young  man 
with  a  cool  head  and  no  prejudices  (this  again  was 
drawn  from  life)  lay  rather  in  making  himself  indis- 
pensable to  one  of  the  beneficent  rich,  and  in  using  the 
timidities  and  conformities  of  his  patron  as  the  means 
of  his  own  advancement.  Young  Millner  felt  no  scruples 
about  formulating  these  principles  to  himself.  It  was 
not  for  nothing  that,  in  his  college  days,  he  had  hunted 
the  hypothetical  "moral  sense"  to  its  lair,  and  dragged 
from  their  concealment  the  various  self-advancing  sen- 
timents dissembled  under  it.  His  strength  lay  in  his 
precocious  insight  into  the  springs  of  action,  and  in  his 
refusal  to  classify  them  according  to  the  accepted 
moral  and  social  sanctions.  He  had  to  the  full  the 
courage  of  his  lack  of  convictions. 

To  a  young  man  so  untrammelled  by  prejudice  it  was 
self-evident  that  helpless  philanthropists  like  Orlando 
[  285  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

G.  Spence  were  just  as  much  the  natural  diet  of  the 
strong  as  the  lamb  is  of  the  wolf.  It  was  pleasanter  to 
eat  than  to  be  eaten,  in  a  world  where,  as  yet,  there 
seemed  to  be  no  third  alternative;  and  any  scruples  one 
might  feel  as  to  the  temporary  discomfort  of  one's 
victim  were  speedily  dispelled  by  that  larger  scientific 
view  which  took  into  account  the  social  destructiveness 
of  the  benevolent.  Millner  was  persuaded  that  every 
individual  woe  mitigated  by  the  philanthropy  of  Or- 
lando G.  Spence  added  just  so  much  to  the  sum-total 
of  human  inefficiency,  and  it  was  one  of  his  favourite 
subjects  of  speculation  to  picture  the  innumerable 
social  evils  that  may  follow  upon  the  rescue  of  one 
infant  from  Mount  Taygetus. 

"We're  all  born  to  prey  on  each  other,  and  pity  for 
suffering  is  one  of  the  most  elementary  stages  of 
egotism.  Until  one  has  passed  beyond,  and  acquired 
a  taste  for  the  more  complex  forms  of  the  instinct " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  checked  in  his  advance  by  a 
sallow  wisp  of  a  dog  which  had  plunged  through  the 
press  of  vehicles  to  hurl  itself  between  his  legs.  Millner 
did  not  dislike  animals,  though  he  preferred  that  they 
should  be  healthy  and  handsome.  The  dog  under  his 
feet  was  neither.  Its  cringing  contour  showed  an  in- 
judicious mingling  of  races,  and  its  meagre  coat  be- 
trayed the  deplorable  habit  of  sleeping  in  coal-holes 
and  subsisting  on  an  innutritious  diet.  In  addition  to 
[  286  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

these  disadvantages,  its  shrinking  and  inconsequent 
movements  revealed  a  congenital  weakness  of  character 
which,  even  under  more  favourable  conditions,  would 
hardly  have  qualified  it  to  become  a  useful  member 
of  society;  and  Millner  was  not  sorry  to  notice  that  it 
moved  with  a  limp  of  the  hind  leg  that  probably  doomed 
it  to  speedy  extinction. 

The  absurdity  of  such  an  animal's  attempting  to 
cross  Fifth  Avenue  at  the  most  crowded  hour  of  the 
afternoon  struck  him  as  only  less  great  than  the  irony 
of  its  having  been  permitted  to  achieve  the  feat;  and 
he  stood  a  moment  looking  at  it,  and  wondering  what 
had  moved  it  to  the  attempt.  It  was  really  a  perfect 
type  of  the  human  derelict  which  Orlando  G.  Spence 
and  his  kind  were  devoting  their  millions  to  perpetuate, 
and  he  reflected  how  much  better  Nature  knew  her 
business  in  dealing  with  the  superfluous  quadruped. 

A  lady  advancing  in  the  opposite  direction  evidently 
took  a  less  dispassionate  view  of  the  case,  for  she 
paused  to  remark  emotionally:  "Oh,  you  poor  thing!" 
while  she  stooped  to  caress  the  object  of  her  sympathy. 
The  dog,  with  characteristic  lack  of  discrimination, 
viewed  her  gesture  with  suspicion,  and  met  it  with 
a  snarl.  The  lady  turned  pale  and  shrank  away,  a 
chivalrous  male  repelled  the  animal  with  his  umbrella, 
and  two  idle  boys  backed  his  actions  by  a  vigorous 
"Hi!"  The  object  of  these  demonstrations,  apparently 
[  287  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

attributing  them  not  to  his  own  unsocial  conduct,  but 
merely  to  the  chronic  hostility  of  the  universe,  dashed 
wildly  around  the  corner  into  a  side  street,  and  as  it  did 
so  Millner  noticed  that  the  lame  leg  left  a  slight  trail  of 
blood.  Irresistibly,  he  turned  the  corner  to  see  what 
would  happen  next.  It  was  clear  that  the  animal  itself 
had  no  plan;  but  after  several  inconsequent  and  con- 
tradictory movements  it  plunged  down  an  area,  where 
it  backed  up  against  the  iron  gate,  forlornly  and 
foolishly  at  bay. 

Millner,  still  following,  looked  down  at  it,  and  won- 
dered. Then  he  whistled,  just  to  see  if  it  would  come; 
but  this  only  caused  it  to  start  up  tremblingly,  with 
desperate  turns  of  the  head  that  measured  the  chances 
of  escape. 

"Oh,  hang  it,  you  poor  devil,  stay  there  if  you  like!" 
the  young  man  murmured,  walking  away. 

A  few  yards  off  he  looked  back,  and  saw  that  the 
dog  had  made  a  rush  out  of  the  area  and  was  limping 
down  the  street.  The  idle  boys  were  in  the  offing, 
and  he  disliked  the  thought  of  leaving  them  in  control 
of  the  situation.  Softly,  with  infinite  precautions,  he 
began  to  follow  the  dog.  He  did  not  know  why  he  was 
doing  it,  but  the  impulse  was  overmastering.  For  a 
moment  he  seemed  to  be  gaining  upon  his  quarry,  but 
with  a  cunning  sense  of  his  approach  it  suddenly  turned 
and  hobbled  across  the  frozen  grass-plot  adjoining  a 
[  288  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

shuttered  house.  Against  the  wall  at  the  back  of  the 
plot  it  cowered  down  in  a  dirty  snow-drift,  as  if  dis- 
heartened by  the  struggle.  Millner  stood  outside  the 
railings  and  looked  at  it.  He  reflected  that  under  the 
shelter  of  the  winter  dusk  it  might  have  the  luck  to 
remain  there  unmolested,  and  that  in  the  morning  it 
would  probably  be  dead.  This  was  so  obviously  the 
best  solution  that  he  began  to  move  away  again;  but 
as  he  did  so  the  idle  boys  confronted  him. 

"Ketch  yer  dog  for  yer,  boss?"  they  grinned. 

Millner  consigned  them  to  the  devil,  and  stood 
watching  till  the  first  stage  of  the  journey  had  carried 
them  around  the  nearest  corner;  then,  after  pausing  to 
look  once  more  up  and  down  the  empty  street,  he 
laid  his  hand  on  the  railing,  and  vaulted  over  it  into 
the  grass-plot.  As  he  did  so,  he  reflected  that,  since 
pity  for  suffering  was  one  of  the  most  primitive  forms 
of  egotism,  he  ought  to  have  remembered  that  it  was 
necessarily  one  of  the  most  tenacious. 


II 

"Mr  chief  aim  in  life?"  Orlando  G.  Spence  repeated. 
He  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  straightened  the 
tortoise-shell  pince-nez  on  his  short  thick  nose,  and 
beamed  down  the  luncheon  table  at  the  two  young 
men  who  shared  his  repast. 

[  289  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

His  glance  rested  on  his  son  Draper,  seated  opposite 
him  behind  a  barrier  of  Georgian  silver  and  orchids; 
but  his  words  were  addressed  to  his  secretary  who, 
stylograph  in  hand,  had  turned  from  the  seductions 
of  a  mushroom  souffle  to  jot  down,  for  the  Sunday 
Investigator,  an  outline  of  his  employer's  views  and 
intentions  respecting  the  newly  endowed  Orlando  G. 
Spence  College  for  Missionaries.  It  was  Mr.  Spence's 
practice  to  receive  in  person  the  journalists  privileged 
to  impart  his  opinions  to  the  world ;  but  during  the  last 
few  months — and  especially  since  the  vast  project  of  the 
Missionary  College  had  been  in  process  of  develop- 
ment— the  pressure  of  business  and  beneficence  had 
necessitated  Millner's  frequent  intervention,  and  com- 
pelled the  secretary  to  snatch  the  sense  of  his  pa- 
tron's elucubrations  between  the  courses  of  their  rapid 
meals. 

Young  Millner  had  a  healthy  appetite,  and  it  was 
not  one  of  his  least  sacrifices  to  be  so  often  obliged  to 
curb  it  in  the  interest  of  his  advancement;  but  whenever 
he  waved  aside  one  of  the  triumphs  of  Mr.  Spence's 
chef  he  was  conscious  of  rising  a  step  in  his  employer's 
favour.  Mr.  Spence  did  not  despise  the  pleasures  of 
the  table,  though  he  appeared  to  regard  them  as  the 
reward  of  success  rather  than  as  the  alleviation  of 
effort;  and  it  increased  his  sense  of  his  secretary's 
merit  to  note  how  keenly  the  young  man  enjoyed  the 
[  290  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

fare  which  he  was  so  frequently  obliged  to  deny  him- 
self. Draper,  having  subsisted  since  infancy  on  a  diet 
of  truffles  and  terrapin,  consumed  such  delicacies  with 
the  insensibility  of  a  traveller  swallowing  a  railway 
sandwich;  but  Millner  never  made  the  mistake  of  con- 
cealing from  Mr.  Spence  his  sense  of  what  he  was  losing 
when  duty  constrained  him  to  exchange  the  fork  for 
the  pen. 

"My  chief  aim  in  life?"  Mr.  Spence  repeated,  re- 
moving his  eye-glass  and  swinging  it  thoughtfully  on 
his  finger.  ("I'm  sorry  you  should  miss  this  souffle, 
Millner:  it's  worth  while.)  Why,  I  suppose  I  might  say 
that  my  chief  aim  in  life  is  to  leave  the  world  better 
than  I  found  it.  Yes:  I  don't  know  that  I  could  put  it 
better  than  that.  To  leave  the  world  better  than  I 
found  it.  It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea  to  use  that  as  a 
head-line.  '  Wants  to  leave  the  world  better  than  he  found 
it.'  It's  exactly  the  point  I  should  like  to  make  in  this 
talk  for  the  Investigator  about  the  College." 

Mr.  Spence  paused,  and  his  glance  once  more  re- 
verted to  his  son,  who,  having  pushed  aside  his  plate, 
sat  watching  Millner  with  a  dreamy  intensity. 

"And  it's  the  point  I  want  to  make  with  you,  too, 
Draper,"  his  father  continued,  while  he  turned  over 
with  a  critical  fork  the  plump  and  perfectly  matched 
asparagus  which  a  footman  was  presenting  to  his  notice. 
"  I  want  to  make  you  feel  that  nothing  else  counts  in 
[291  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

comparison  with  that — no  amount  of  literary  success  or 
intellectual  celebrity." 

"Oh,  I  do  feel  that,"  Draper  murmured,  with  one 
of  his  quick  blushes,  and  a  glance  that  wavered  between 
his  father  and  Millner.  The  secretary  kept  his  eyes  on 
his  notes,  and  young  Spence  continued,  after  a  pause: 
"Only  the  thing  is — isn't  it? — to  try  and  find  out  just 
what  does  make  the  world  better?" 

"To  try  to  find  out?"  his  father  echoed  compassion- 
ately. "It's  not  necessary  to  try  very  hard.  Goodness  is 
what  makes  the  world  better." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  his  son  interposed;  "but  the 
question  is,  what  is  good — 

Mr.  Spence,  with  a  darkening  brow,  brought  his 
fist  down  emphatically  on  the  damask.  "I'll  thank  you 
not  to  blaspheme,  my  son!" 

Draper's  head  reared  itself  a  trifle  higher  on  his  thin 
neck.  "I  was  not  going  to  blaspheme;  only  there  may 
be  different  ways " 

"There's  where  you're  mistaken,  Draper.  There's 
only  one  way:  there's  my  way,"  said  Mr.  Spence  in 
a  tone  of  unshaken  conviction. 

"I  know,  father;  I  see  what  you  mean.  But  don't 
you  see  that  even  your  way  wouldn't  be  the  right  way 
for  you  if  you  ceased  to  believe  that  it  was  ?  " 

His  father  looked  at  him  with  mingled  bewilderment 
and  reprobation.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  fact 
[  292  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

of  goodness  depends  on  my  conception  of  it,  and  not 
on  God  Almighty's?" 

"I  do  ...  yes  ...  in  a  certain  sense  .  .  ."  young 
Draper  falteringly  maintained;  and  Mr.  Spence  turned 
with  a  discouraged  gesture  toward  his  secretary. 

"I  don't  understand  your  scientific  jargon,  Draper; 
and  I  don't  want  to. — What's  the  next  point,  Millner  ? 
(No;  no  Savarin.  Bring  the  fruit — and  the  coffee  with 
it.)" 

Millner,  keenly  aware  that  an  aromatic  Savarin  au 
rhum  was  describing  an  arc  behind  his  head  previous 
to  being  rushed  back  to  the  pantry  under  young  Dra- 
per's indifferent  eye,  stiffened  himself  against  this  last 
assault,  and  read  out  firmly:  "What  relation  do  you 
consider  that  a  man's  business  conduct  sJwuld  bear  to 
his  religious  and  domestic  life  ? " 

Mr.  Spence  meditated  for  a  moment.  "Why,  that's 
a  stupid  question.  It  goes  over  the  same  ground  as 
the  other  one.  A  man  ought  to  do  good  with  his 
money — that's  all.  Go  on." 

At  this  point  the  butler's  murmur  in  his  ear  caused 
him  to  push  back  his  chair,  and  to  arrest  Millner's 
interrogatory  by  a  rapid  gesture.  "Yes;  I'm  coming. 
Hold  the  wire."  Mr.  Spence  rose  and  plunged  into  the 
adjoining  "office,"  where  a  telephone  and  a  Remington 
divided  the  attention  of  a  young  lady  in  spectacles  who 
was  preparing  for  Zenana  work  in  the  East. 
[  293  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

As  the  door  closed,  the  butler,  having  placed  the  coffee 
and  liqueurs  on  the  table,  withdrew  in  the  wake  of 
his  battalion,  and  the  two  young  men  were  left  alone 
beneath  the  Rembrandts  and  Hobbemas  that  looked 
down  upon  the  dining-table. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  between  them;  then 
young  Spence,  leaning  across  the  table,  said  in  the  low- 
ered tone  of  intimacy:  "Why  do  you  suppose  he  dodged 
that  last  question?" 

Millner,  who  had  taken  an  opulent  purple  fig  from 
the  fruit-dish  nearest  him,  paused  in  surprise  in  the 
act  of  hurrying  it  to  his  lips. 

"I  mean,"  Draper  hastened  on,  "the  question  as 
to  the  relation  between  business  and  private  morality. 
It's  such  an  interesting  one,  and  he's  just  the  person 
who  ought  to  tackle  it." 

Millner,  despatching  the  fig,  glanced  down  at  his 
notes.  "I  don't  think  your  father  meant  to  dodge  the 
question,"  he  returned. 

Young  Draper  continued  to  look  at  him. 

'  You  think  he  imagined  that  his  answer  really  covers 
the  ground  ?  " 

"As  much  as  it  needs  to  be  covered." 

The  son  of  the  house  glanced  away  with  a  sigh. 
"You  know  things  about  him  that  I  don't,"  he  said 
wistfully,  but  without  a  tinge  of  resentment. 

"Oh,  as  to  that — (may  I  give  myself  some  coffee  ?)  " 
[  294  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

Millner,  in  his  walk  around  the  table  to  fill  his  cup, 
paused  a  moment  to  lay  an  affectionate  hand  on  Dra- 
per's shoulder.  "Perhaps  I  know  him  better,  in  a  sense: 
outsiders  often  get  a  more  accurate  focus." 

Draper  seemed  to  consider  this.  "And  your  idea  is 
that  he  acts  on  principles  he  has  never  thought  of 
testing  or  defining?" 

Millner  looked  up  quickly,  and  for  an  instant  their 
glances  crossed.  "How  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean:  that  he's  an  inconscient  instrument  of  good- 
ness, as  it  were  ?  A — a  sort  of  blindly  beneficent  force  ?  " 

The  other  smiled.  "That's  not  a  bad  definition.  I 
know  one  thing  about  him,  at  any  rate:  he's  awfully 
upset  at  your  having  chucked  your  Bible  Class." 

A  shadow  fell  on  young  Spence's  candid  brow.  "I 
know.  But  what  can  I  do  about  it  ?  That's  what  I  was 
thinking  of  just  now  when  I  tried  to  show  him  that 
goodness,  in  a  certain  sense,  is  purely  subjective:  that 
one  can't  do  good  against  one's  principles."  Again 
his  glance  appealed  to  Millner.  "  You  understand  me, 
don't  you?" 

Millner  stirred  his  coffee  in  a  silence  not  unclouded 
by  perplexity.  "Theoretically,  perhaps.  It's  a  pretty 
question,  certainly.  But  I  also  understand  your  father's 
feeling  that  it  hasn't  much  to  do  with  life:  especially 
now  that  he's  got  to  make  a  speech  in  connection  with 
the  founding  of  this  Missionary  College.  He  maj  think 
[  295  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

that  any  hint  of  internecine  strife  will  weaken  his  pres- 
tige. Mightn't  you  have  waited  a  little  longer?" 

"How  could  I,  when  I  might  have  been  expected 
to  take  a  part  in  this  performance?  To  talk,  and  say 
things  I  didn't  mean  ?  That  was  exactly  what  made  me 
decide  not  to  wait." 

The  door  opened  and  Mr.  Spence  re-entered  the 
room.  As  he  did  so  his  son  rose  as  if  to  leave  it. 

"Where  are  you  off  to,  Draper?"  the  banker  asked. 

"I'm  in  rather  a  hurry,  sir — 

Mr.  Spence  looked  at  his  watch.  "You  can't  be  in 
more  of  a  hurry  than  I  am;  and  I've  got  seven  minutes 
and  a  half."  He  seated  himself  behind  the  coffee-tray, 
lit  a  cigar,  laid  his  watch  on  the  table,  and  signed  to 
Draper  to  resume  his  place.  "No,  Millner,  don't  you 
go;  I  want  you  both."  He  turned  to  the  secretary. 
"You  know  that  Draper's  given  up  his  Bible  Class? 
I  understand  it's  not  from  the  pressure  of  engage- 
ments"—  Mr.  Spence's  narrow  lips  took  an  ironic 
curve  under  the  straight-clipped  stubble  of  his  mous- 
tache— "it's  on  principle,  he  tells  me.  He's  principled 
against  doing  good!" 

Draper  lifted  a  protesting  hand.  "It's  not  exactly 
that,  father — 

"I  know:  you'll  get  off  some  scientific  quibble  that 
I  don't  understand.  I've  never  had  time  to  go  in 
for  intellectual  hair-splitting.  I've  found  too  many 
[  296  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

people  down  in  the  mire  who  needed  a  hand  to  pull 
them  out.  A  busy  man  has  to  take  his  choice  between 
helping  his  fellow-men  and  theorising  about  them.  I've 
preferred  to  help.  (You  might  take  that  down  for  the 
Investigator,  Millner.)  And  I  thank  God  I've  never 
stopped  to  ask  what  made  me  want  to  do  good.  I've 
just  yielded  to  the  impulse — that's  all."  Mr.  Spence 
turned  back  to  his  son.  "Better  men  than  either  of 
us  have  been  satisfied  with  that  creed,  my  boy." 

Draper  was  silent,  and  Mr.  Spence  once  more  ad- 
dressed himself  to  his  secretary.  "Millner,  you're  a 
reader:  I've  caught  you  at  it.  And  I  know  this  boy  talks 
to  you.  What  have  you  got  to  say?  Do  you  suppose 
a  Bible  Class  ever  hurt  anybody?" 

Millner  paused  a  moment,  feeling  all  through  his 
nervous  system  the  fateful  tremor  of  the  balance. 
"That's  what  I  was  just  trying  to  tell  him,  sir — 

"Ah;  you  were  ?  That's  good.  Then  I'll  only  say  one 
thing  more.  Your  doing  what  you've  done  at  this  par- 
ticular moment  hurts  me  more,  Draper,  than  your 
teaching  the  gospel  of  Jesus  could  possibly  have  hurt 
those  young  men  over  in  Tenth  Avenue."  Mr.  Spence 
arose  and  restored  his  watch  to  his  pocket.  "I  shall 
want  you  in  twenty  minutes,  Millner." 

The  door  closed  on  him,  and  for  a  while  the  two 
young  men  sat  silent  behind  their  cigar  fumes.  Then 
Draper  Spence  broke  out,  with  a  catch  in  his  throat: 
[  297  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

"That's  what  I  can't  bear,  Millner,  what  I  simply  can't 
bear:  to  hurt  him,  to  hurt  his  faith  in  me!  It's  an  awful 
responsibility,  isn't  it,  to  tamper  with  anybody's  faith 
in  anything?" 

Ill 

THE  twenty  minutes  prolonged  themselves  to  forty, 
the  forty  to  fifty,  and  the  fifty  to  an  hour;  and  still 
Millner  waited  for  Mr.  Spence's  summons. 

During  the  two  years  of  his  secretaryship  the  young 
man  had  learned  the  significance  of  such  postponements. 
Mr.  Spence's  days  were  organised  like  a  railway  time- 
table, and  a  delay  of  an  hour  implied  a  casualty  as  far- 
reaching  as  the  breaking  down  of  an  express.  Of  the 
cause  of  the  present  derangement  Hugh  Millner  was 
ignorant;  and  the  experience  of  the  last  months  al- 
lowed him  to  fluctuate  between  conflicting  conjectures. 
All  were  based  on  the  indisputable  fact  that  Mr.  Spence 
was  "bothered" — had  for  some  time  past  been  "both- 
ered." And  it  was  one  of  Millner's  discoveries  that  an 
extremely  parsimonious  use  of  the  emotions  underlay 
Mr.  Spence's  expansive  manner  and  fraternal  phrase- 
ology, and  that  he  did  not  throw  away  his  feelings  any 
more  than  (for  all  his  philanthropy)  he  threw  away  his 
money.  If  he  was  bothered,  then,  it  could  be  only  be- 
cause a  careful  survey  of  his  situation  had  forced  on 
him  some  unpleasant  fact  with  which  he  was  not  im- 
[  298  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

mediately  prepared  to  deal;  and  any  unprepared  ness 
on  Mr.  Spence's  part  was  also  a  significant  symp- 
tom. 

Obviously,  Millner's  original  conception  of  his  em- 
ployer's character  had  suffered  extensive  modification; 
but  no  final  outline  had  replaced  the  first  conjectural 
image.  The  two  years  spent  in  Mr.  Spence's  service 
had  produced  too  many  contradictory  impressions  to 
be  fitted  into  any  clear  pattern;  and  the  chief  lesson 
Millner  had  learned  from  them  was  that  life  was  less 
of  an  exact  science,  and  character  a  more  incalculable 
element,  than  he  had  been  taught  in  the  schools.  In  the 
light  of  this  revised  impression,  his  own  footing  seemed 
less  secure  than  he  had  imagined,  and  the  rungs  of  the 
ladder  he  was  climbing  more  slippery  than  they  had 
looked  from  below.  He  was  not  without  the  reassuring 
sense  of  having  made  himself,  in  certain  small  ways, 
necessary  to  Mr.  Spence;  and  this  conviction  was  con- 
firmed by  Draper's  reiterated  assurance  of  his  father's 
appreciation.  But  Millner  had  begun  to  suspect  that 
one  might  be  necessary  to  Mr.  Spence  one  day,  and  a 
superfluity,  if  not  an  obstacle,  the  next;  and  that  it 
would  take  superhuman  astuteness  to  foresee  how 
and  when  the  change  would  occur.  Every  fluctuation 
of  the  great  man's  mood  was  therefore  anxiously  noted 
by  the  young  meteorologist  in  his  service;  and  this 
observer's  vigilance  was  now  strained  to  the  utmost 
[  299  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

by  the  little  cloud,  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  adum- 
brated by  the  banker's  unpunctuality. 

When  Mr.  Spence  finally  appeared,  his  aspect  did 
not  tend  to  dissipate  the  cloud.  He  wore  what  Millner 
had  learned  to  call  his  "back-door  face":  a  blank 
barred  countenance,  in  which  only  an  occasional 
twitch  of  the  lids  behind  his  glasses  suggested  that  some 
one  was  on  the  watch.  In  this  mood  Mr.  Spence  usually 
seemed  unconscious  of  his  secretary's  presence,  or 
aware  of  it  only  as  an  arm  terminating  in  a  pen.  Millner, 
accustomed  on  such  occasions  to  exist  merely  as  a  func- 
tion, sat  waiting  for  the  click  of  the  spring  that  should 
set  him  in  action;  but  the  pressure  not  being  applied, 
he  finally  hazarded:  "Are  we  to  go  on  with  the  In- 
vestigator, sir?" 

Mr.  Spence,  who  had  been  pacing  up  and  down  be- 
tween the  desk  and  the  fireplace,  threw  himself  into 
his  usual  seat  at  Millner's  elbow. 

"I  don't  understand  this  new  notion  of  Draper's," 
he  said  abruptly.  "Where's  he  got  it  from?  No  one 
ever  learned  irreligion  in  my  household." 

He  turned  his  eyes  on  Millner,  who  had  the  sense  of 
being  scrutinised  through  a  ground-glass  window  which 
left  him  visible  while  it  concealed  his  observer.  The 
young  man  let  his  pen  describe  two  or  three  vague 
patterns  on  the  sheet  before  him. 

"Draper  has  ideas "  he  risked  at  last. 

[  300  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

Mr.  Spence  looked  hard  at  him.  "That's  all  right," 
he  said.  "I  want  my  son  to  have  everything.  But  what's 
the  point  of  mixing  up  ideas  and  principles  ?  I've  seen 
fellows  who  did  that,  and  they  were  generally  trying 
to  borrow  five  dollars  to  get  away  from  the  sheriff. 
What's  all  this  talk  about  goodness  ?  Goodness  isn't 
an  idea.  It's  a  fact.  It's  as  solid  as  a  business  proposi- 
tion. And  it's  Draper's  duty,  as  the  son  of  a  wealthy 
man,  and  the  prospective  steward  of  a  great  fortune, 
to  elevate  the  standards  of  other  young  men — of  young 
men  who  haven't  had  his  opportunities.  The  rich  ought 
to  preach  contentment,  and  to  set  the  example  them- 
selves. We  have  our  cares,  but  we  ought  to  conceal 
them.  We  ought  to  be  cheerful,  and  accept  things  as 
they  are — not  go  about  sowing  dissent  and  restlessness. 
WThat  has  Draper  got  to  give  these  boys  in  his  Bible 
Class,  that's  so  much  better  than  what  he  wants  to 
take  from  them  ?  That's  the  question  I'd  like  to  have 
answered." 

Mr.  Spence,  carried  away  by  his  own  eloquence,  had 
removed  his  pince-nez  and  was  twirling  it  about  his 
extended  forefinger  with  the  gesture  habitual  to  him 
when  he  spoke  in  public.  After  a  pause,  he  went  on, 
with  a  drop  to  the  level  of  private  intercourse:  "I  tell 
you  this  because  I  know  you  have  a  good  deal  of  influ- 
ence with  Draper.  He  has  a  high  opinion  of  your  brains. 
But  you're  a  practical  fellow,  and  you  must  see  what 
[  301  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

I  mean.  Try  to  make  Draper  see  it.  Make  him  under- 
stand how  it  looks  to  have  him  drop  his  Bible  Class  just 
at  this  particular  time.  It  was  his  own  choice  to  take 
up  religious  teaching  among  young  men.  He  began 
with  our  office-boys,  and  then  the  work  spread  and  was 
blessed.  I  was  almost  alarmed,  at  one  time,  at  the  way 
it  took  hold  of  him:  when  the  papers  began  to  talk 
about  him  as  a  formative  influence  I  was  afraid  he'd 
lose  his  head  and  go  into  the  church.  Luckily  he  tried 
University  Settlement  first;  but  just  as  I  thought  he 
was  settling  down  to  that,  he  took  to  worrying  about 
the  Higher  Criticism,  and  saying  he  couldn't  go  on 
teaching  fairy-tales  as  history.  I  can't  see  that  any  good 
ever  came  of  criticising  what  our  parents  believed,  and 
it's  a  queer  time  for  Draper  to  criticise  my  belief  just 
as  I'm  backing  it  to  the  extent  of  five  millions." 

Millner  remained  silent;  and,  as  though  his  silence 
were  an  argument,  Mr.  Spence  continued  combatively: 
"Draper's  always  talking  about  some  distinction  be- 
tween religion  and  morality.  I  don't  understand  what 
he  means.  I  got  my  morals  out  of  the  Bible,  and  I  guess 
there's  enough  left  in  it  for  Draper.  If  religion  won't 
make  a  man  moral,  I  don't  see  why  irreligion  should. 
And  he  talks  about  using  his  mind — well,  can't  he  use 
that  in  Wall  Street  ?  A  man  can  get  a  good  deal  farther 
in  life  watching  the  market  than  picking  holes  in  Gene- 
sis; and  he  can  do  more  good  too.  There's  a  time  for 
[  302  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

everything;  and  Draper  seems  to  me  to  have  mixed  up 
week-days  with  Sunday." 

Mr.  Spence  replaced  his  eye-glasses,  and  stretching 
his  hand  to  the  silver  box  at  his  elbow,  extracted  from 
it  one  of  the  long  cigars  sheathed  in  gold-leaf  which 
were  reserved  for  his  private  consumption.  The  secre- 
tary hastened  to  tender  him  a  match,  and  for  a  moment 
he  puffed  in  silence.  When  he  spoke  again  it  was  in  a 
different  note. 

"I've  got  about  all  the  bother  I  can  handle  just  now, 
without  this  nonsense  of  Draper's.  That  was  one  of  the 
Trustees  of  the  College  with  me.  It  seems  the  Flash- 
light has  been  trying  to  stir  up  a  fuss —  "  Mr.  Spence 
paused,  and  turned  his  pince-nez  on  his  secretary. 
"You  haven't  heard  from  them?"  he  asked. 

"From  the  Flashlight  ?  No."  Millner's  surprise  was 
genuine. 

He  detected  a  gleam  of  relief  behind  Mr.  Spence's 
glasses.  "It  may  be  just  malicious  talk.  That's  the  worst 
of  good  works;  they  bring  out  all  the  meanness  in 
human  nature.  And  then  there  are  always  women  mixed 
up  in  them,  and  there  never  was  a  woman  yet  who 
understood  the  difference  between  philanthropy  and 
business."  He  drew  again  at  his  cigar,  and  then,  with 
an  unwonted  movement,  leaned  forward  and  absently 
pushed  the  box  toward  Millner.  "Help  yourself,"  he 
said. 

[  303  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

Millner,  as  mechanically,  took  one  of  the  virginally 
cinctured  cigars,  and  began  to  undo  its  wrappings.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  been  privileged  to  detach 
that  golden  girdle,  and  nothing  could  have  given  him 
a  better  measure  of  the  importance  of  the  situation, 
and  of  the  degree  to  which  he  was  apparently  involved 
in  it.  "You  remember  that  San  Pablo  rubber  business? 
That's  what  they've  been  raking  up,"  said  Mr.  Spence. 

Millner  paused  in  the  act  of  striking  a  match.  Then, 
with  an  appreciable  effort  of  the  will,  he  completed  the 
gesture,  applied  the  flame  to  his  cigar,  and  took  a  long 
inhalation.  The  cigar  was  certainly  delicious. 

Mr.  Spence,  drawing  a  little  closer,  leaned  forward 
and  touched  him  on  the  arm.  The  touch  caused  Millner 
to  turn  his  head,  and  for  an  instant  the  glance  of  the 
two  men  crossed  at  short  range.  Millner  was  conscious, 
first,  of  a  nearer  view  than  he  had  ever  had  of  his  em- 
ployer's face,  and  of  its  vaguely  suggesting  a  seamed 
sandstone  head,  the  kind  of  thing  that  lies  in  a  corner 
in  the  court  of  a  museum,  and  in  which  only  the  round 
enamelled  eyes  have  resisted  the  wear  of  time.  His  next 
feeling  was  that  he  had  now  reached  the  moment  to 
which  the  offer  of  the  cigar  had  been  a  prelude.  He 
had  always  known  that,  sooner  or  later,  such  a  moment 
would  come ;  all  his  life,  in  a  sense,  had  been  a  prepara- 
tion for  it.  But  in  entering  Mr.  Spence's  service  he  had 
not  foreseen  that  it  would  present  itself  in  this  form. 
[  304  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

He  had  seen  himself  consciously  guiding  that  gentleman 
up  to  the  moment,  rather  than  being  thrust  into  it  by 
a  stronger  hand.  And  his  first  act  of  reflection  was  the 
resolve  that,  in  the  end,  his  hand  should  prove  the 
stronger  of  the  two.  This  was  followed,  almost  immedi- 
ately, by  the  idea  that  to  be  stronger  than  Mr.  Spence's 
it  would  have  to  be  very  strong  indeed.  It  was  odd  that 
he  should  feel  this,  since — as  far  as  verbal  communica- 
tion went — it  was  Mr.  Spence  who  was  asking  for  his 
support.  In  a  theoretical  statement  of  the  case  the 
banker  would  have  figured  as  being  at  Millner's  mercy; 
but  one  of  the  queerest  things  about  experience  was  the 
way  it  made  light  of  theory.  Millner  felt  now  as  though 
he  were  being  crushed  by  some  inexorable  engine  of 
which  he  had  been  playing  with  the  lever.  .  . 

He  had  always  been  intensely  interested  in  observing 
his  own  reactions,  and  had  regarded  this  faculty  of  self- 
detachment  as  of  immense  advantage  in  such  a  career 
as  he  had  planned.  He  felt  this  still,  even  in  the  act  of 
noting  his  own  bewilderment — felt  it  the  more  in  con- 
trast to  the  odd  unconsciousness  of  Mr.  Spence's  atti- 
tude, of  the  incredible  candour  of  his  self-abasement 
and  self-abandonment.  It  was  clear  that  Mr.  Spence 
was  not  troubled  by  the  repercussion  of  his  actions  in 
the  consciousness  of  others;  and  this  looked  like  a 
weakness — unless  it  were,  instead,  a  great  strength.  .  . 

Through  the  hum  of  these  swarming  thoughts  Mr. 
[  305  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

Spence's  voice  was  going  on.  "That's  literally  the  only 
rag  of  proof  they've  got;  and  they  got  it  by  one  of  those 
nasty  accidents  that  nobody  can  guard  against.  I  don't 
care  how  conscientiously  a  man  attends  to  business,  he 
can't  always  protect  himself  against  meddlesome  peo- 
ple. I  don't  pretend  to  know  how  the  letter  came  into 
their  hands;  but  they've  got  it;  and  they  mean  to  use  it 
— and  they  mean  to  say  that  you  wrote  it  for  me,  and 
that  you  knew  what  it  was  about  when  you  wrote  it.  .  . 
They'll  probably  be  after  you  to-morrow — 

Mr.  Spence,  restoring  his  cigar  to  his  lips,  puffed 
at  it  slowly.  In  the  pause  that  followed  there  was  an 
insta~v  during  which  the  universe  seemed  to  Hugh 
Millner  like  a  sounding-board  bent  above  his  single 
consciousness.  If 'he  spoke,  what  thunders  would  be 
sent  back  to  him  from  that  intently  listening  vastness  ? 

"You  see?"  said  Mr.  Spence. 

The  universal  ear  bent  closer,  as  if  to  catch  the  least 
articulation  of  Millner's  narrowed  lips;  but  when  he 
opened  them  it  was  merely  to  reinsert  his  cigar,  and 
for  a  short  space  nothing  passed  between  the  two  men 
but  a  mute  exchange  of  smoke- rings. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do?  There's  the  point," 
Mr.  Spence  at  length  sent  through  the  rings. 

Oh,  yes,  the  point  was  there,  as  distinctly  before 
Millner  as  the  tip  of  his  expensive  cigar:  he  had  seen  it 
coming  quite  as  soon  as  Mr.  Spence.  But  the  sense  of 
[  306  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

the  formidable  echo  which  his  least  answer  would  rouse 
kept  him  doggedly,  and  almost  helplessly,  silent.  To 
let  Mr.  Spence  talk  on  as  long  as  possible  was  no  doubt 
the  best  way  of  gaining  time;  but  Millner  knew  that 
his  silence  was  really  due  to  his  dread  of  the  echo. 
Suddenly,  however,  in  a  reaction  of  impatience  at  his 
own  indecision,  he  began  to  speak. 

The  sound  of  his  voice  cleared  his  mind  and  strength- 
ened his  resolve.  It  was  odd  how  the  word  seemed  to 
shape  the  act,  though  one  knew  how  ancillary  it  really 
was.  As  he  talked,  it  was  as  if  the  globe  had  swung 
around,  and  he  himself  were  upright  on  its  axis,  with 
Mr.  Spence  underneath,  on  his  head.  Through  the 
ensuing  interchange  of  concise  and  rapid  speech  there 
sounded  in  Millner's  ears  the  refrain  to  which  he  had 
walked  down  Fifth  Avenue  after  his  first  talk  with 
Mr.  Spence:  "It's  too  easy — it's  too  easy — it's  toa 
easy."  Yes,  it  was  even  easier  than  he  had  expected. 
His  sensation  was  that  of  the  skilful  carver  who  feels 
his  blade  sink  into  a  tender  joint. 

As  he  went  on  talking,  this  surprised  sense  of  mastery 
was  like  wine  in  his  veins.  Mr.  Spence  was  at  his  mercy, 
after  all — that  was  what  it  came  to;  but  this  new  view 
of  the  case  did  not  lessen  Millner's  sense  of  Mr.  Spence's 
strength,  it  merely  revealed  to  him  his  own  superiority. 
Mr.  Spence  was  even  stronger  than  he  had  suspected. 
There  could  be  no  better  proof  of  that  than  his  faith 
[  307  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

in  Millner's  power  to  grasp  the  situation,  and  his  tacit 
recognition  of  the  young  man's  right  to  make  the  most 
of  it.  Millner  felt  that  Mr.  Spence  would  have  despised 
him  even  more  for  not  using  his  advantage  than  for  not 
seeing  it;  and  this  homage  to  his  capacity  nerved  him 
to  greater  alertness,  and  made  the  concluding  moments 
of  their  talk  as  physically  exhilarating  as  some  hotly 
contested  game. 

When  the  conclusion  was  reached,  and  Millner  stood 
at  the  goal,  the  golden  trophy  in  his  grasp,  his  first 
conscious  thought  was  one  of  regret  that  the  struggle 
was  over.  He  would  have  liked  to  prolong  their  talk 
for  the  purely  aesthetic  pleasure  of  making  Mr.  Spence 
lose  time,  and,  better  still,  of  making  him  forget  that 
he  was  losing  it.  The  sense  of  advantage  that  the  situa- 
tion conferred  was  so  great  that  when  Mr.  Spence  rose 
it  was  as  if  Millner  were  dismissing  him,  and  when  he 
reached  his  hand  toward  the  cigar-box  it  seemed  to  be 
one  of  Millner's  cigars  that  he  was  taking. 


IV 

THERE  had  been  only  one  condition  attached  to  the 
transaction:  Millner  was  to  speak  to  Draper  about  the 
Bible  Class. 

The  condition  was  easy  to  fulfil.  Millner  was  con- 
fident of  his  power  to  deflect  his  young  friend's  purpose; 
[  308  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

and  he  knew  the  opportunity  would  be  given  him  before 
the  day  was  over.  His  professional  duties  despatched, 
he  had  only  to  go  up  to  his  room  to  wait.  Draper  nearly 
always  looked  in  on  him  for  a  moment  before  dinner: 
it  was  the  hour  most  propitious  to  their  elliptic  inter- 
change of  words  and  silences. 

Meanwhile,  the  waiting  was  an  occupation  in  itself. 
Millner  looked  about  his  room  with  new  eyes.  Since 
the  first  thrill  of  initiation  into  its  complicated  comforts 
— the  shower-bath,  the  telephone,  the  many-jointed 
reading-lamp  and  the  vast  mirrored  presses  through 
which  he  was  always  hunting  his  scant  outfit — Millner's 
room  had  interested  him  no  more  than  a  railway- 
carriage  in  which  he  might  have  been  travelling.  But 
now  it  had  acquired  a  sort  of  historic  significance  as  the 
witness  of  the  astounding  change  in  his  fate.  It  was 
Corsica,  it  was  Brienne — it  was  the  kind  of  spot  that 
posterity  might  yet  mark  with  a  tablet.  Then  he  reflected 
that  he  should  soon  be  leaving  it,  and  the  lustre  of  its 
monumental  mahogany  was  veiled  in  pathos.  Why  in- 
deed should  he  linger  on  in  bondage?  He  perceived 
with  a  certain  surprise  that  the  only  thing  he  should 
regret  would  be  leaving  Draper.  .  . 

It  was  odd,  it  was  inconsequent,  it  was  almost  ex- 
asperating, that  such  a  regret  should  obscure  his  tri- 
umph. Why  in  the  world  should  he  suddenly  take  to 
regretting  Draper?  If  there  were  any  logic  in  human 
[  309  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

likings,  it  should  be  to  Mr.  Spence  that  he  inclined. 
Draper,  dear  lad,  had  the  illusion  of  an  "intellectual 
sympathy "  between  them ;  but  that,  Millner  knew,  was 
an  affair  of  reading  and  not  of  character.  Draper's 
temerities  would  always  be  of  that  kind;  whereas  his 
own — well,  his  own,  put  to  the  proof,  had  now  definitely 
classed  him  with  Mr.  Spence  rather  than  with  Mr. 
Spence's  son.  It  was  a  consequence  of  this  new  condi- 
tion— of  his  having  thus  distinctly  and  irrevocably 
classed  himself — that,  when  Draper  at  length  brought 
upon  the  scene  his  shy  shamble  and  his  wistful  smile, 
Millner,  for  the  first  time,  had  to  steel  himself  against 
them  instead  of  yielding  to  their  charm. 

In  the  new  order  upon  which  he  had  entered,  one 
principle  of  the  old  survived:  the  point  of  honour  be- 
tween allies.  And  Millner  had  promised  Mr.  Spence  to 
speak  to  Draper  about  his  Bible  Class.  .  . 

Draper,  thrown  back  in  his  chair,  and  swinging  a 
loose  leg  across  a  meagre  knee,  listened  with  his  habitual 
gravity.  His  downcast  eyes  seemed  to  pursue  the  vision 
which  Millner's  words  evoked;  and  the  words,  to  their 
speaker,  took  on  a  new  sound  as  that  candid  con- 
sciousness refracted  them. 

"You  know,  dear  boy,  I  perfectly  see  your  father's 
point.  It's  naturally  distressing  to  him,  at  this  particu- 
lar time,  to  have  any  hint  of  civil  war  leak  out — 

Draper  sat  upright,  laying  his  lank  legs  knee  to  knee. 
[310  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

"That's  it,  then?  I  thought  that  was  it!" 
Millner  raised  a  surprised  glance.  "  What's  it  ?  " 
"That  it  should  be  at  this  particular  time — 
"Why,  naturally,  as  I  say!  Just  as  he's  making,  as 
it  were,  his  public  profession  of  faith.  You  know,  to 
men  like  your  father  convictions  are  irreducible  ele- 
ments— they  can't  be  split  up    and    differently  com- 
bined. And  your  exegetical  scruples  seem  to  him  to 
strike  at  the  very  root  of  his  convictions." 

Draper  pulled  himself  to  his  feet  and  shuffled  across 
the  room.  Then  he  turned  about,  and  stood  before  his 
friend. 

"Is  it  that — or  is  it  this  ?"  he  said;  and  with  the  word 
he  drew  a  letter  from  his  pocket  and  proffered  it  silently 
to  Millner. 

The  latter,  as  he  unfolded  it,  was  first  aware  of  an 
intense  surprise  at  the  young  man's  abruptness  of 
tone  and  gesture.  Usually  Draper  fluttered  long  about 
his  point  before  making  it;  and  his  sudden  movement 
seemed  as  mechanical  as  the  impulsion  conveyed  by 
some  strong  spring.  The  spring,  of  course,  was  in  the 
letter;  and  to  it  Millner  turned  his  wondering  glance, 
feeling  the  while  that,  by  some  curious  cleavage  of  per- 
ception, he  was  continuing  to  watch  Draper  while  he 
read. 

"Oh,  the  beasts!"  he  cried. 

He  and  Draper  were  face  to  face  across  the  sheet 
[311  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

which  had  dropped  between  them.  The  youth's  features 
were  tightened  by  a  smile  that  was  like  the  ligature  of 
a  wound.  He  looked  white  and  withered. 

"Ah — you  knew,  then?" 

Millner  sat  still,  and  after  a  moment  Draper  turned 
from  him,  walked  to  the  hearth,  and  leaned  against 
the  chimney,  propping  his  chin  on  his  hands.  Millner, 
his  head  thrown  back,  stared  up  at  the  ceiling,  which 
had  suddenly  become  to  him  the  image  of  the  universal 
sounding-board  hanging  over  his  consciousness. 

"You  knew,  then?"  Draper  repeated. 

Millner  remained  silent.  He  had  perceived,  with  the 
surprise  of  a  mathematician  working  out  a  new  prob- 
lem, that  the  lie  which  Mr.  Spence  had  just  bought  of 
him  was  exactly  the  one  he  could  give  of  his  own  free 
will  to  Mr.  Spence's  son.  This  discovery  gave  the  world 
a  strange  new  topsy-turvy  ness,  and  set  Millner's  theo- 
ries spinning  about  his  brain  like  the  cabin  furniture 
of  a  tossing  ship. 

"You  knew"  said  Draper,  in  a  tone  of  quiet  affirma- 
tion. 

Millner  righted  himself,  and  grasped  the  arms  of  his 
chair  as  if  that  too  were  reeling.  "About  this  black- 
guardly charge?" 

Draper  was  studying  him  intently.  "What  does  it 
matter  if  it's  blackguardly?" 

"Matter ?"  Millner  stammered. 

[  312  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

"It's  that,  of  course,  in  any  case.  But  the  point  is 
whether  it's  true  or  not."  Draper  bent  down,  and  pick- 
ing up  the  crumpled  letter,  smoothed  it  out  between  his 
fingers.  "The  point  is,  whether  my  father,  when  he 
was  publicly  denouncing  the  peonage  abuses  on  the 
San  Pablo  plantations  over  a  year  ago,  had  actually 
sold  out  his  stock,  as  he  announced  at  the  time;  or 
whether,  as  they  say  here — how  do  they  put  it  ? — he  had 
simply  transferred  it  to  a  dummy  till  the  scandal  should 
blow  over,  and  has  meanwhile  gone  on  drawing  his 
forty  per  cent,  interest  on  five  thousand  shares  ?  There's 
the  point." 

Millner  had  never  before  heard  his  young  friend  put 
a  case  with  such  unadorned  precision.  His  language 
was  like  that  of  Mr.  Spence  making  a  statement  to  a 
committee  meeting;  and  the  resemblance  to  his  father 
flashed  out  with  ironic  incongruity. 

"You  see  why  I've  brought  this  letter  to  you — I 
couldn't  go  to  him  with  it!"  Draper's  voice  faltered, 
and  the  resemblance  vanished  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
appeared. 

"No;  you  couldn't  go  to  him  with  it,"  said  Millner, 
to  gain  time. 

"And  since  they  say  here  that  you  know:  that  they've 

got  your  letter  proving  it "  The  muscles  of  Draper's 

face  quivered  as  if  a  blinding  light  had  been  swept  over 
it.  "For  God's  sake,  Millner — it's  all  right?" 
[313  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Millner,  rising  to  his  feet. 

Draper  caught  him  by  the  wrist.  "You're  sure — 
you're  absolutely  sure?" 

"Sure.  They  know  they've  got  nothing  to  go  on." 

Draper  fell  back  a  step  and  looked  almost  sternly 
at  his  friend.  "That's  not  what  I  mean.  I  don't  care 
a  straw  what  they  think  they've  got  to  go  on.  I  want  to 
know  if  my  father's  all  right.  If  he  is,  they  can  say  what 
they  please." 

Millner,  again,  felt  himself  under  the  concentrated 
scrutiny  of  the  ceiling.  "Of  course,  of  course.  I  under- 
stand." 

"You  understand?  Then  why  don't  you  answer?" 

Millner  looked  compassionately  at  the  boy's  struggling 
face.  Decidedly,  the  battle  was  to  the  strong,  and  he  was 
not  sorry  to  be  on  the  side  of  the  legions.  But  Draper's 
pain  was  as  awkward  as  a  material  obstacle,  as  some- 
thing that  one  stumbled  over  in  a  race. 

"You  know  what  I'm  driving  at,  Millner."  Again 
Mr.  Spence's  committee-meeting  tone  sounded  oddly 
through  his  son's  strained  voice.  "  If  my  father's  so 
awfully  upset  about  my  giving  up  my  Bible  Class,  and 
letting  it  be  known  that  I  do  so  on  conscientious  grounds, 
is  it  because  he's  afraid  it  may  be  considered  a  criticism 
on  something  he  has  done  which — which  won't  bear  the 
test  of  the  doctrines  he  believes  in  ? " 

Draper,  with  the  last  question,  squared  himself  in 
[  314  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

front  of  Millner,  as  if  suspecting  that  the  latter  meant 
to  evade  it  by  flight.  But  Millner  had  never  felt  more 
disposed  to  stand  his  ground  than  at  that  moment. 

"No — by  Jove,  no!  It's  not  that"  His  relief  almost 
escaped  him  in  a  cry,  as  he  lifted  his  head  to  give  back 
Draper's  look. 

"On  your  honour?"  the  other  passionately  pressed 
him. 

"Oh,  on  anybody's  you  like — on  yours!"  Millner 
could  hardly  restrain  a  laugh  of  relief.  It  was  vertiginous 
to  find  himself  spared,  after  all,  the  need  of  an  altruistic 
lie:  he  perceived  that  they  were  the  kind  he  least  liked. 

Draper  took  a  deep  breath.  "You  don't — Millner, 
a  lot  depends  on  this — you  don't  really  think  my  father 
has  any  ulterior  motive?" 

"I  think  he  has  none  but  his  horror  of  seeing  you 
go  straight  to  perdition!" 

They  looked  at  each  other  again,  and  Draper's  ten- 
sion was  suddenly  relieved  by  a  free  boyish  laugh.  "  It's 
his  convictions — it's  just  his  funny  old  convictions?" 

"It's  that,  and  nothing  else  on  earth!" 

Draper  turned  back  to  the  arm-chair  he  had  left, 
and  let  his  narrow  figure  sink  down  into  it  as  into  a 
bath.  Then  he  looked  over  at  Millner  with  a  smile. 
"I  can  see  that  I've  been  worrying  him  horribly.  So 
he  really  thinks  I'm  on  the  road  to  perdition  ?  Of  course 
you  can  fancy  what  a  sick  minute  I  had  when  I  thought 
[315  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

it  might  be  this  other  reason — the  damnable  insinua- 
tion in  this  letter."  Draper  crumpled  the  paper  in  his 
hand,  and  leaned  forward  to  toss  it  into  the  coals  of 
the  grate.  "I  ought  to  have  known  better,  of  course.  I 
ought  to  have  remembered  that,  as  you  say,  my  father 
can't  conceive  how  conduct  may  be  independent  of 
creed.  That's  where  I  was  stupid — and  rather  base. 
But  that  letter  made  me  dizzy — I  couldn't  think.  Even 
now  I  can't  very  clearly.  I'm  not  sure  what  my  con- 
victions require  of  me:  they  seem  to  me  so  much  less 
to  be  considered  than  his !  When  I've  done  half  the  good 
to  people  that  he  has,  it  will  be  time  enough  to  begin 
attacking  their  beliefs.  Meanwhile — meanwhile  I  can't 
touch  his.  .  ."  Draper  leaned  forward,  stretching  his 
lank  arms  along  his  knees.  His  face  was  as  clear  as  a 
spring  sky.  "I  won't  touch  them,  Millner — Go  and  tell 
him  so.  .  ." 

V 

IN  the  study  a  half  hour  later  Mr.  Spence,  watch  in 
hand,  was  doling  out  his  minutes  again.  The  peril  con- 
jured, he  had  recovered  his  dominion  over  time.  He 
turned  his  commanding  eye-glasses  on  Millner. 

"It's  all  settled,  then?  Tell  Draper  I'm  sorry  not  to 

see  him  again  to-night — but  I'm  to  speak  at  the  dinner 

of  the  Legal  Relief  Association,  and  I'm  due  there  in 

five  minutes.  You  and  he  dine  alone  here,  I  suppose? 

[  316] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

Tell  him  I  appreciate  what  he's  done.  Some  day  he'll 
see  that  to  leave  the  world  better  than  we  find  it  is  the 
best  we  can  hope  to  do.  (You've  finished  the  notes  for 
the  Investigator  ?  Be  sure  you  don't  forget  that  phrase.) 
Well,  good  evening:  that's  all,  I  think." 

Smooth  and  compact  in  his  glossy  evening  clothes, 
Mr.  Spence  advanced  toward  the  study  door;  but  as 
he  reached  it,  his  secretary  stood  there  before  him. 

"It's  not  quite  all,  Mr.  Spence." 

Mr.  Spence  turned  on  him  a  look  in  which  impatience 
was  faintly  tinged  with  apprehension.  "What  else  is 
there  ?  It's  two  and  a  half  minutes  to  eight." 

Millner  stood  his  ground.  "It  won't  take  longer  than 
that.  I  want  to  tell  you  that,  if  you  can  conveniently 
replace  me,  I'd  like — there  are  reasons  why  I  shall  have 
to  leave  you." 

Millner  was  conscious  of  reddening  as  he  spoke.  His 
redness  deepened  under  Mr.  Spence's  dispassionate 
scrutiny.  He  saw  at  once  that  the  banker  was  not  sur- 
prised at  his  announcement. 

"Well,  I  suppose  that's  natural  enough.  You'll  want 
to  make  a  start  for  yourself  now.  Only,  of  course,  for 
the  sake  of  appearances " 

"Oh,  certainly,"  Millner  hastily  agreed. 

"Well,  then:  is  that  all?"  Mr.  Spence  repeated. 

"Nearly."  Millner  paused,  as  if  in  search  of  an  ap- 
propriate formula.  But  after  a  moment  he  gave  up  the 
[317  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

search,  and  pulled  from  his  pocket  an  envelope  which 
he  held  out  to  his  employer.  "I  merely  want  to  give 
this  back  to  you." 

The  hand  which  Mr.  Spence  had  extended  dropped 
to  his  side,  and  his  sand-coloured  face  grew  chalky. 
"Give  it  back?"  His  voice  was  as  thick  as  Millner's. 
"What's  happened?  Is  the  bargain  off?" 

"Oh,  no.  I've  given  you  my  word." 

"Your  word?"  Mr.  Spence  lowered  at  him.  "I'd 
like  to  know  what  that's  worth!" 

Millner  continued  to  hold  out  the  envelope.  "You  do 
know,  now.  It's  worth  that.  It's  worth  my  place." 

Mr.  Spence,  standing  motionless  before  him,  hesi- 
tated for  an  appreciable  space  of  time.  His  lips  parted 
once  or  twice  under  their  square-clipped  stubble,  and 
at  last  emitted :  "  You'd  better  say  at  once  how  much 
more  you  want. " 

Millner  broke  into  a  laugh.  "Oh,  I've  got  all  I  want 
— all  and  more!" 

"What — from  the  others?     Are  you  crazy?" 

"No,  you  are,"  said  Millner  with  a  sudden  recovery 
of  composure.  "But  you're  safe — you're  as  safe  as 
you'll  ever  be.  Only  I  don't  care  to  take  this  for  making 
you  so." 

Mr.  Spence  slowly  moistened  his  lips  with  his  tongue, 
and  removing  his  pince-nez,  took  a  long  hard  look  at 
Millner. 

[  318  ] 


THE   BLOND   BEAST 

"I  don't  understand.  What  other  guaranty  have  I 
got?" 

"That  I  mean  what  I  say?"  Millner  glanced  past 
the  banker's  figure  at  his  rich  densely  coloured  back- 
ground of  Spanish  leather  and  mahogany.  He  remem- 
bered that  it  was  from  this  very  threshold  that  he  had 
first  seen  Mr.  Spence's  son. 

"What  guaranty?  You've  got  Draper!"  he  said. 


[  319] 


AFTERWARD 


AFTERWARD 


,    there   is  one,  of  course,  but  you'll  never 
know  it." 

The  assertion,  laughingly  flung  out  six  months 
earlier  in  a  bright  June  garden,  came  back  to  Mary 
Boyne  with  a  new  perception  of  its  significance  as  she 
stood,  in  the  December  dusk,  waiting  for  the  lamps  to 
be  brought  into  the  library. 

The  words  had  been  spoken  by  their  friend  Alida 
Stair,  as  they  sat  at  tea  on  her  lawn  at  Pangbourne,  in 
reference  to  the  very  house  of  which  the  library  in 
question  was  the  central,  the  pivotal  "feature."  Mary 
Boyne  and  her  husband,  in  quest  of  a  country  place  in 
one  of  the  southern  or  southwestern  counties,  had,  on 
their  arrival  in  England,  carried  their  problem  straight 
to  Alida  Stair,  who  had  successfully  solved  it  in  her 
own  case;  but  it  was  not  until  they  had  rejected,  al- 
most capriciously,  several  practical  and  judicious  sug- 
gestions that  she  threw  out:  "Well,  there's  Lyng,  in 
Dorsetshire.  It  belongs  to  Hugo's  cousins,  and  you  can 
get  it  for  a  song." 

[  323  ] 


AFTERWARD 

The  reason  she  gave  for  its  being  obtainable  on  these 
terms —  its  remoteness  from  a  station,  its  lack  of  electric 
light,  hot-water  pipes,  and  other  vulgar  necessities — 
were  exactly  those  pleading  in  its  favour  with  two 
romantic  Americans  perversely  in  search  of  the  economic 
drawbacks  which  were  associated,  in  their  tradition, 
with  unusual  architectural  felicities. 

"I  should  never  believe  I  was  living  in  an  old  house 
unless  I  was  thoroughly  uncomfortable,"  Ned  Boyne, 
the  more  extravagant  of  the  two,  had  jocosely  insisted; 
"the  least  hint  of  'convenience'  would  make  me  think 
it  had  been  bought  out  of  an  exhibition,  with  the  pieces 
numbered,  and  set  up  again."  And  they  had  proceeded 
to  enumerate,  with  humorous  precision,  their  various 
doubts  and  demands,  refusing  to  believe  that  the 
house  their  cousin  recommended  was  really  Tudor  till 
they  learned  it  had  no  heating  system,  or  that  the  village 
church  was  literally  in  the  grounds  till  she  assured  them 
of  the  deplorable  uncertainty  of  the  water-supply. 

"It's  too  uncomfortable  to  be  true!"  Edward  Boyne 
had  continued  to  exult  as  the  avowal  of  each  disad- 
vantage was  successively  wrung  from  her;  but  he  had  cut 
short  his  rhapsody  to  ask,  with  a  relapse  to  distrust: 
"And  the  ghost?  You've  been  concealing  from  us  the 
fact  that  there  is  no  ghost!" 

Mary,  at  the  moment,  had  laughed  with  him,  yet 
almost  with  her  laugh,  being  possessed  of  several  sets 
[  324  ] 


AFTERWARD 

of  independent  perceptions,  had  been  struck  by  a  note 
of  flatness  in  Alida's  answering  hilarity. 

"Oh,  Dorsetshire's  full  of  ghosts,  you  know." 

"Yes,  yes;  but  that  won't  do.  I  don't  want  to  have  to 
drive  ten  miles  to  see  somebody  else's  ghost.  I  want  one 
of  my  own  on  the  premises.  Is  there  a  ghost  at  Lyng  ?  " 

His  rejoinder  hadjnade  Alida  laugh  again,  and  it  was 
then  that  she  had  flung  back  tantalisingly:  "Oh,  there 
is  one,  of  course,  but  you'll  never  know  it." 

"Never  know  it?"  Boyne  pulled  her  up.  "But  what 
in  the  world  constitutes  a  ghost  except  the  fact  of  its 
being  known  for  one?" 

"I  can't  say.  But  that's  the  story." 

"That  there's  a  ghost,  but  that  nobody  knows  it's 
a  ghost?" 

"Well — not  till  afterward,  at  any  rate." 

"Till  afterward?" 

"Not  till  long  long  afterward." 

"But  if  it's  once  been  identified  as  an  unearthly 
visitant,  why  hasn't  its  signalement  been  handed  down 
in  the  family?  How  has  it  managed  to  preserve  its 
incognito  ?  " 

Alida  could  only  shake  her  head.  "Don't  ask  me. 
But  it  has." 

"And  then  suddenly—  "  Mary  spoke  up  as  if  from 
cavernous  depths  of  divination — "suddenly,  long  after- 
ward, one  says  to  one's  self  '  That  was  it?" 
[325  ] 


AFTERWARD 

She  was  startled  at  the  sepulchral  sound  with  which 
her  question  fell  on  the  banter  of  the  other  two, 
and  she  saw  the  shadow  of  the  same  surprise  flit 
across  Alida's  pupils.  "I  suppose  so.  One  just  has  to 
wait." 

"Oh,  hang  waiting!"  Ned  broke  in.  "Life's  too  short 
for  a  ghost  who  can  only  be  enjoyed  in  retrospect. 
Can't  we  do  better  than  that,  Mary  ?  " 

But  it  turned  out  that  in  the  event  they  were  not  des- 
tined to,  for  within  three  months  of  their  conversation 
with  Mrs.  Stair  they  were  settled  at  Lyng,  and  the  life 
they  had  yearned  for,  to  the  point  of  planning  it  in 
advance  in  all  its  daily  details,  had  actually  begun  for 
them. 

It  was  to  sit,  in  the  thick  December  dusk,  by  just 
such  a  wide- hooded  fireplace,  under  just  such  black 
oak  rafters,  with  the  sense  that  beyond  the  mullioned 
panes  the  downs  were  darkened  to  a  deeper  solitude: 
it  was  for  the  ultimate  indulgence  of  such  sensations 
that  Mary  Boyne,  abruptly  exiled  from  New  York  by 
her  husband's  business,  had  endured  for  nearly  fourteen 
years  the  soul-deadening  ugliness  of  a  Middle  Western 
town,  and  that  Boyne  had  ground  on  doggedly  at  his 
engineering  till,  with  a  suddenness  that  still  made  her 
blink,  the  prodigious  windfall  of  the  Blue  Star  Mine 
had  put  them  at  a  stroke  in  possession  of  life  and  the 
leisure  to  taste  it.  They  had  never  for  a  moment  meant 
[  326  ] 


AFTERWARD 

their  new  state  to  be  one  of  idleness;  but  they  meant  to 
give  themselves  only  to  harmonious  activities.  She  had 
her  vision  of  painting  and  gardening  (against  a  back- 
ground of  grey  walls),  he  dreamed  of  the  production 
of  his  long-planned  book  on  the  "Economic  Basis  of 
Culture";  and  with  such  absorbing  work  ahead  no 
existence  could  be  too  sequestered:  they  could  not  get 
far  enough  from  the  world,  or  plunge  deep  enough 
into  the  past. 

Dorsetshire  had  attracted  them  from  the  first  by  an 
air  of  remoteness  out  of  all  proportion  to  its  geo- 
graphical position.  But  to  the  Boynes  it  was  one  of 
the  ever-recurring  wonders  of  the  whole  incredibly 
compressed  island — a  nest  of  counties,  as  they  put  it — 
that  for  the  production  of  its  effects  so  little  of  a  given 
quality  went  so  far:  that  so  few  miles  made  a  distance, 
and  so  short  a  distance  a  difference. 

"It's  that,"  Ned  had  once  enthusiastically  explained, 
"that  gives  such  depth  to  their  effects,  such  relief  to 
their  contrasts.  They've  been  able  to  lay  the  butter  so 
thick  on  every  delicious  mouthful." 

The  butter  had  certainly  been  laid  on  thick  at  Lyng: 
the  old  house  hidden  under  a  shoulder  of  the  downs 
had  almost  all  the  finer  marks  of  commerce  with  a 
protracted  past.  The  mere  fact  that  it  was  neither  large 
nor  exceptional  made  it,  to  the  Boynes,  abound  the 
more  completely  in  its  special  charm — the  charm  of 
[  327  ] 


AFTERWARD 

having  been  for  centuries  a  deep  dim  reservoir  of  life. 
The  life  had  probably  not  been  of  the  most  vivid  order: 
for  long  periods,  no  doubt,  it  had  fallen  as  noiselessly 
into  the  past  as  the  quiet  drizzle  of  autumn  fell,  hour 
after  hour,  into  the  fish-pond  between  the  yews;  but 
these  back-waters  of  existence  sometimes  breed,  in 
their  sluggish  depths,  strange  acuities  of  emotion,  and 
Mary  Boyne  had  felt  from  the  first  the  mysterious  stir 
of  intenser  memories. 

The  feeling  had  never  been  stronger  than  on  this 
particular  afternoon  when,  waiting  in  the  library  for 
the  lamps  to  come,  she  rose  from  her  seat  and  stood 
among  the  shadows  of  the  hearth.  Her  husband  had 
gone  off,  after  luncheon,  for  one  of  his  long  tramps  on 
the  downs.  She  had  noticed  of  late  that  he  preferred  to 
go  alone;  and,  in  the  tried  security  of  their  personal 
relations,  had  been  driven  to  conclude  that  his  book 
was  bothering  him,  and  that  he  needed  the  afternoons 
to  turn  over  in  solitude  the  problems  left  from  the 
morning's  work.  Certainly  the  book  was  not  going  as 
smoothly  as  she  had  thought  it  would,  and  there  were 
lines  of  perplexity  between  his  eyes  such  as  had  never 
been  there  in  his  engineering  days.  He  had  often,  then, 
looked  fagged  to  the  verge  of  illness,  but  the  native 
demon  of  "worry"  had  never  branded  his  brow.  Yet 
the  few  pages  he  had  so  far  read  to  her — the  intro- 
duction, and  a  summary  of  the  opening  chapter — 
[  328  ] 


AFTERWARD 

showed  a  firm  hold  on  his  subject,  and  an  increasing 
confidence  in  his  powers. 

The  fact  threw  her  into  deeper  perplexity,  since,  now 
that  he  had  done  with  "business"  and  its  disturbing 
contingencies,  the  one  other  possible  source  of  anxiety 
was  eliminated.  Unless  it  were  his  health,  then?  But 
physically  he  had  gained  since  they  had  come  to  Dorset- 
shire, grown  robuster,  ruddier  and  fresher-eyed.  It  was 
only  within  the  last  week  that  she  had  felt  in  him  the 
undefinable  change  which  made  her  restless  in  his 
absence,  and  as  tongue-tied  in  his  presence  as  though 
it  were  she  who  had  a  secret  to  keep  from  him! 

The  thought  that  there  was  a  secret  somewhere  be- 
tween them  struck  her  with  a  sudden  rap  of  wonder, 
and  she  looked  about  her  down  the  long  room. 

"Can  it  be  the  house?"  she  mused. 

The  room  itself  might  have  been  full  of  secrets. 
They  seemed  to  be  piling  themselves  up,  as  evening 
fell,  like  the  layers  and  layers  of  velvet  shadow  drop- 
ping from  the  low  ceiling,  the  rows  of  books,  the 
smoke-blurred  sculpture  of  the  hearth. 

"Why,  of  course — the  house  is  haunted!"  she  re- 
flected. 

The  ghost — Alida's  imperceptible  ghost — after  fig- 
uring largely  in  the  banter  of  their  first  month  or  two 
at  Lyng,  had  been  gradually  left  aside  as  too  ineffectual 
for  imaginative  use.  Mary  had,  indeed,  as  became  the 
[  329  ] 


AFTERWARD 

tenant  of  a  haunted  house,  made  the  customary  in- 
quiries among  her  rural  neighbours,  but,  beyond  a  vague 
"They  dii  say  so,  Ma'am,"  the  villagers  had  nothing 
to  impart.  The  elusive  spectre  had  apparently  never 
had  sufficient  identity  for  a  legend  to  crystallise  about 
it,  and  after  a  time  the  Boynes  had  set  the  matter  down 
to  their  profit-and-loss  account,  agreeing  that  Lyng 
was  one  of  the  few  houses  good  enough  in  itself  to  dis- 
pense with  supernatural  enhancements. 

"And  I  suppose,  poor  ineffectual  demon,  that's 
why  it  beats  its  beautiful  wings  in  vain  in  the  void," 
Mary  had  laughingly  concluded. 

"Or,  rather,"  Ned  answered  in  the  same  strain, 
"why,  amid  so  much  that's  ghostly,  it  can  never  affirm 
its  separate  existence  as  the  ghost."  And  thereupon 
their  invisible  housemate  had  finally  dropped  out  of 
their  references,  which  were  numerous  enough  to  make 
them  soon  unaware  of  the  loss. 

Now,  as  she  stood  on  the  hearth,  the  subject  of 
their  earlier  curiosity  revived  in  her  with  a  new  sense 
of  its  meaning — a  sense  gradually  acquired  through 
daily  contact  with  the  scene  of  the  lurking  mystery. 
It  was  the  house  itself,  of  course,  that  possessed  the 
ghost-seeing  faculty,  that  communed  visually  but 
secretly  with  its  own  past;  if  one  could  only  get  into 
close  enough  communion  with  the  house,  one  might 
surprise  its  secret,  and  acquire  the  ghost-sight  on  one's 
[  330  ] 


AFTERWARD 

own  account.  Perhaps,  in  his  long  hours  in  this  very 
room,  where  she  never  trespassed  till  the  afternoon, 
her  husband  had  acquired  it  already,  and  was  silently 
carrying  about  the  weight  of  whatever  it  had  revealed 
to  him.  Mary  was  too  well  versed  in  the  code  of  the 
spectral  world  not  to  know  that  one  could  not  talk 
about  the  ghosts  one  saw :  to  do  so  was  almost  as  great 
a  breach  of  taste  as  to  name  a  lady  in  a  club.  But  this 
explanation  did  not  really  satisfy  her.  "What,  after  all, 
except  for  the  fun  of  the  shudder,"  she  reflected,  "would 
he  really  care  for  any  of  their  old  ghosts  ?"  And  thence 
she  was  thrown  back  once  more  on  the  fundamental 
dilemma:  the  fact  that  one's  greater  or  less  susceptibility 
to  spectral  influences  had  no  particular  bearing  on  the 
case,  since,  when  one  did  see  a  ghost  at  Lyng,  one  did 
not  know  it. 

"Not  till  long  afterward,"  Alida  Stair  had  said. 
Well,  supposing  Ned  had  seen  one  when  they  first 
came,  and  had  known  only  within  the  last  week  what 
had  happened  to  him  ?  More  and  more  under  the  spell 
of  the  hour,  she  threw  back  her  thoughts  to  the  early 
days  of  their  tenancy,  but  at  first  only  to  recall  a  lively 
confusion  of  unpacking,  settling,  arranging  of  books, 
and  calling  to  each  other  from  remote  corners  of  the 
house  as,  treasure  after  treasure,  it  revealed  itself  to 
them.  It  was  in  this  particular  connection  that  she 
presently  recalled  a  certain  soft  afternoon  of  the  pre- 
[331  ] 


AFTERWARD 

vious  October,  when,  passing  from  the  first  rapturous 
flurry  of  exploration  to  a  detailed  inspection  of  the  old 
house,  she  had  pressed  (like  a  novel  heroine)  a  panel 
that  opened  on  a  flight  of  corkscrew  stairs  leading  to 
a  flat  ledge  of  the  roof — the  roof  which,  from  below, 
seemed  to  slope  away  on  all  sides  too  abruptly  for  any 
but  practised  feet  to  scale. 

The  view  from  this  hidden  coign  was  enchanting, 
and  she  had  flown  down  to  snatch  Ned  from  his  papers 
and  give  him  the  freedom  of  her  discovery.  She  remem- 
bered still  how,  standing  at  her  side,  he  had  passed  his 
arm  about  her  while  their  gaze  flew  to  the  long  tossed 
horizon-line  of  the  downs,  and  then  dropped  contentedly 
back  to  trace  the  arabesque  of  yew  hedges  about  the 
fish-pond,  and  the  shadow  of  the  cedar  on  the  lawn. 

"And  now  the  other  way,"  he  had  said,  turning  her 
about  within  his  arm;  and  closely  pressed  to  him,  she 
had  absorbed,  like  some  long  satisfying  draught,  the 
picture  of  the  grey-walled  court,  the  squat  lions  on  the 
gates,  and  the  lime-avenue  reaching  up  to  the  highroad 
under  the  downs. 

It  was  just  then,  while  they  gazed  and  held  each 
other,  that  she  had  felt  his  arm  relax,  and  heard  a 
sharp  "Hullo!"  that  made  her  turn  to  glance  at  him. 

Distinctly,  yes,  she  now  recalled  that  she  had  seen, 
as  she  glanced,  a  shadow  of  anxiety,  of  perplexity, 
rather,  fall  across  his  face;  and,  following  his  eyes,  had 


AFTERWARD 

beheld  the  figure  of  a  man — a  man  in  loose  greyish 
clothes,  as  it  appeared  to  her — who  was  sauntering 
down  the  lime-avenue  to  the  court  with  the  doubtful 
gait  of  a  stranger  who  seeks  his  way.  Her  short-sighted 
eyes  had  given  her  but  a  blurred  impression  of  slight- 
ness  and  greyishness,  with  something  foreign,  or  at 
least  unlocal,  in  the  cut  of  the  figure  or  its  dress;  but 
her  husband  had  apparently  seen  more — seen  enough 
to  make  him  push  past  her  with  a  hasty  "Wait!"  and 
dash  down  the  stairs  without  pausing  to  give  her  a  hand. 

A  slight  tendency  to  dizziness  obliged  her,  after  a 
provisional  clutch  at  the  chimney  against  which  they 
had  been  leaning,  to  follow  him  first  more  cautiously; 
and  when  she  had  reached  the  landing  she  paused 
again,  for  a  less  definite  reason,  leaning  over  the 
banister  to  strain  her  eyes  through  the  silence  of  the 
brown  sun-flecked  depths.  She  lingered  there  till,  some- 
where in  those  depths,  she  heard  the  closing  of  a  door; 
then,  mechanically  impelled,  she  went  down  the  shallow 
flights  of  steps  till  she  reached  the  lower  hall. 

The  front  door  stood  open  on  the  sunlight  of  the 
court,  and  hall  and  court  were  empty.  The  library 
door  was  open,  too,  and  after  listening  in  vain  for  any 
sound  of  voices  within,  she  crossed  the  threshold,  and 
found  her  husband  alone,  vaguely  fingering  the  papers 
on  his  desk. 

He  looked  up,  as  if  surprised  at  her  entrance,  but  the 
[  333  ] 


AFTERWARD 

shadow  of  anxiety  had  passed  from  his  face,  leaving  it 
even,  as  she  fancied,  a  little  brighter  and  clearer  than 
usual. 

"What  was  it?  Who  was  it?"  she  asked. 

"Who?"  he  repeated,  with  the  surprise  still  all  on 
his  side. 

"The  man  we  saw  coming  toward  the  house." 

He  seemed  to  reflect.  "The  man?  Why,  I  thought  I 
saw  Peters;  I  dashed  after  him  to  say  a  word  about  the 
stable  drains,  but  he  had  disappeared  before  I  could 
get  down." 

"  Disappeared  ?  But  he  seemed  to  be  walking  so 
slowly  when  we  saw  him." 

Boyne  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "So  I  thought;  but 
he  must  have  got  up  steam  in  the  interval.  What  do 
you  say  to  our  trying  a  scramble  up  Meldon  Steep  be- 
fore sunset?" 

That  was  all.  At  the  time  the  occurrence  had  been 
less  than  nothing,  had,  indeed,  been  immediately  ob- 
literated by  the  magic  of  their  first  vision  from  Meldon 
Steep,  a  height  which  they  had  dreamed  of  climbing 
ever  since  they  had  first  seen  its  bare  spine  rising 
above  the  roof  of  Lyng.  Doubtless  it  was  the  mere 
fact  of  the  other  incident's  having  occurred  on  the  very 
day  of  their  ascent  to  Meldon  that  had  kept  it  stored 
away  in  the  fold  of  memory  from  which  it  now 
emerged;  for  in  itself  it  had  no  mark  of  the  portentous. 
[  334  ] 


AFTERWARD 

At  the  moment  there  could  have  been  nothing  more 
natural  than  that  Ned  should  dash  himself  from  the 
roof  in  the  pursuit  of  dilatory  tradesmen.  It  was  the 
period  when  they  were  always  on  the  watch  for  one 
or  the  other  of  the  specialists  employed  about  the  place; 
always  lying  in  wait  for  them,  and  rushing  out  at  them 
with  questions,  reproaches  or  reminders.  And  certainly 
in  the  distance  the  grey  figure  had  looked  like  Peters. 
Yet  now,  as  she  reviewed  the  scene,  she  felt  her 
husband's  explanation  of  it  to  have  been  invalidated  by 
the  look  of  anxiety  on  his  face.  Why  had  the  familiar 
appearance  of  Peters  made  him  anxious  ?  Why,  above 
all,  if  it  was  of  such  prime  necessity  to  confer  with  him 
on  the  subject  of  the  stable  drains,  had  the  failure  to 
find  him  produced  such  a  look  of  relief  ?  Mary  could 
not  say  that  any  one  of  these  questions  had  occurred  to 
her  at  the  time,  yet,  from  the  promptness  with  which 
they  now  marshalled  themselves  at  her  summons,  she 
had  a  sense  that  they  must  all  along  have  been  there, 
waiting  their  hour. 

II 

WEARY  with  her  thoughts,  she  moved  to  the  window. 

The  library  was  now  quite  dark,  and  she  was  surprised 

to  see  how  much  faint  light  the  outer  world  still  held. 

As  she  peered  out  into  it  across  the  court,  a  figure 

shaped  itself  far  down  the  perspective  of  bare  limes: 

[  335  ] 


AFTERWARD 

it  looked  a  mere  blot  of  deeper  grey  in  the  greyness, 
and  for  an  instant,  as  it  moved  toward  her,  her  heart 
thumped  to  the  thought  "It's  the  ghost!" 

She  had  time,  in  that  long  instant,  to  feel  suddenly 
that  the  man  of  whom,  two  months  earlier,  she  had 
had  a  distant  vision  from  the  roof,  was  now,  at  his 
predestined  hour,  about  to  reveal  himself  as  not 
having  been  Peters;  and  her  spirit  sank  under  the  im- 
pending fear  of  the  disclosure.  But  almost  with  the 
next  tick  of  the  clock  the  figure,  gaining  substance  and 
character,  showed  itself  even  to  her  weak  sight  as  her 
husband's;  and  she  turned  to  meet  him,  as  he  entered, 
with  the  confession  of  her  folly. 

"It's  really  too  absurd,"  she  laughed  out,  "but  I 
never  can  remember!" 

"Remember  what?"  Boyne  questioned  as  they  drew 
together. 

"That  when  one  sees  the  Lyng  ghost  one  never 
knows  it." 

Her  hand  was  on  his  sleeve,  and  he  kept  it  there, 
but  with  no  response  in  his  gesture  or  in  the  lines  of 
his  preoccupied  face. 

"Did  you  think  you'd  seen  it?"  he  asked,  after  an 
appreciable  interval. 

"Why,  I  actually  took  you  for  it,  my  dear,  in  my 
mad  determination  to  spot  it!" 

"Me — just  now?"  His  arm  dropped  away,  and  he 
[  336  ] 


AFTERWARD 

turned  from  her  with  a  faint  echo  of  her  laugh.  "Really, 
dearest,  you'd  better  give  it  up,  if  that's  the  best  you 
can  do." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  give  it  up.  Have  you  ?"  she  asked,  turn- 
ing round  on  him  abruptly. 

The  parlour-maid  had  entered  with  letters  and  a 
lamp,  and  the  light  struck  up  into  Boyne's  face  as  he 
bent  above  the  tray  she  presented. 

"Have  you?"  Mary  perversely  insisted,  when  the 
servant  had  disappeared  on  her  errand  of  illumination. 

"Have  I  what?"  he  rejoined  absently,  the  light 
bringing  out  the  sharp  stamp  of  worry  between  his 
brows  as  he  turned  over  the  letters. 

"Given  up  trying  to  see  the  ghost."  Her  heart  beat 
a  little  at  the  experiment  she  was  making. 

Her  husband,  laying  his  letters  aside,  moved  away 
into  the  shadow  of  the  hearth. 

"I  never  tried,"  he  said,  tearing  open  the  wrapper 
of  a  newspaper. 

"Well,  of  course,"  Mary  persisted,  "the  exasperat- 
ing thing  is  that  there's  no  use  trying,  since  one  can't 
be  sure  till  so  long  afterward." 

He  was  unfolding  the  paper  as  if  he  had  hardly  heard 
her;  but  after  a  pause,  during  which  the  sheets  rustled 
spasmodically  between  his  hands,  he  looked  up  to  ask, 
"Have  you  any  idea  how  long  ?" 

Mary  had  sunk  into  a  low  chair  beside  the  fireplace. 
[  337  ] 


AFTERWARD 

From  her  seat  she  glanced  over,  startled,  at  her  hus- 
band's profile,  which  was  projected  against  the  circle 
of  lamplight. 

"No;  none.  Have  you?"  she  retorted,  repeating  her 
former  phrase  with  an  added  stress  of  intention. 

Boyne  crumpled  the  paper  into  a  bunch,  and  then, 
inconsequently,  turned  back  with  it  toward  the  lamp. 

"Lord,  no!  I  only  meant,"  he  explained,  with  a  faint 
tinge  of  impatience,  "is  there  any  legend,  any  tradition, 
as  to  that?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  she  answered;  but  the  im- 
pulse to  add  "What  makes  you  ask?"  was  checked  by 
the  reappearance  of  the  parlour-maid,  with  tea  and  a 
second  lamp. 

With  the  dispersal  of  shadows,  and*  the  repetition 
of  the  daily  domestic  office,  Mary  Boyne  felt  herself 
less  oppressed  by  that  sense  of  something  mutely  im- 
minent which  had  darkened  her  afternoon.  For  a  few 
moments  she  gave  herself  to  the  details  of  her  task, 
and  when  she  looked  up  from  it  she  was  struck  to  the 
point  of  bewilderment  by  the  change  in  her  husband's 
face.  He  had  seated  himself  near  the  farther  lamp, 
and  was  absorbed  in  the  perusal  of  his  letters;  but 
was  it  something  he  had  found  in  them,  or  merely  the 
shifting  of  her  own  point  of  view,  that  had  restored  his 
features  to  their  normal  aspect  ?  The  longer  she  looked 
the  more  definitely  the  change  affirmed  itself.  The 
[  338  ] 


AFTERWARD 

lines  of  tension  had  vanished,  and  such  traces  of 
fatigue  as  lingered  were  of  the  kind  easily  attributable 
to  steady  mental  effort.  He  glanced  up,  as  if  drawn 
by  her  gaze,  and  met  her  eyes  with  a  smile. 

"I'm  dying  for  my  tea,  you  know;  and  here's  a  letter 
for  you,"  he  said. 

She  took  the  letter  he  held  out  in  exchange  for  the 
cup  she  proffered  him,  and,  returning  to  her  seat,  broke 
the  seal  with  the  languid  gesture  of  the  reader  whose 
interests  are  all  enclosed  in  the  circle  of  one  cherished 
presence. 

Her  next  conscious  motion  was  that  of  starting  to  her 
feet,  the  letter  falling  to  them  as  she  rose,  while  she  held 
out  to  her  husband  a  newspaper  clipping. 

"Ned!  What'*  this?  What  does  it  mean?" 

He  had  risen  at  the  same  instant,  almost  as  if  hearing 
her  cry  before  she  uttered  it;  and  for  a  perceptible  space 
of  time  he  and  she  studied  each  other,  like  adversaries 
watching  for  an  advantage,  across  the  space  between 
her  chair  and  his  desk. 

"What's  what?  You  fairly  made  me  jump!"  Boyne 
said  at  length,  moving  toward  her  with  a  sudden  half- 
exasperated  laugh.  The  shadow  of  apprehension  was 
on  his  face  again,  not  now  a  look  of  fixed  forebod- 
ing, but  a  shifting  vigilance  of  lips  and  eyes  that 
gave  her  the  sense  of  his  feeling  himself  invisibly  sur- 
rounded. 

[  339  ] 


AFTERWARD 

Her  hand  shook  so  that  she  could  hardly  give  him 
the  clipping. 

"This  article — from  the  Waukesha  Sentinel — that  a 
man  named  Elwell  has  brought  suit  against  you — that 
there  was  something  wrong  about  the  Blue  Star  Mine. 
I  can't  understand  more  than  half." 

They  continued  to  face  each  other  as  she  spoke,  and 
to  her  astonishment  she  saw  that  her  words  had  the 
almost  immediate  effect  of  dissipating  the  strained 
watchfulness  of  his  look. 

"Oh,  that  /"  He  glanced  down  the  printed  slip,  and 
then  folded  it  with  the  gesture  of  one  who  handles 
something  harmless  and  familiar.  "What's  the  matter 
with  you  this  afternoon,  Mary?  I  thought  you'd  got 
bad  news." 

She  stood  before  him  with  her  undefinable  terror 
subsiding  slowly  under  the  reassurance  of  his  tone. 

"You  knew  about  this,  then — it's  all  right  ?" 

"Certainly  I  knew  about  it;  and  it's  all  right." 

"But  what  is  it?  I  don't  understand.  What  does 
this  man  accuse  you  of?" 

"Pretty  nearly  every  crime  in  the  calendar."  Boyne 
had  tossed  the  clipping  down,  and  thrown  himself 
into  an  arm-chair  near  the  fire.  "Do  you  want  to  hear 
the  story?  It's  not  particularly  interesting — just  a 
squabble  over  interests  in  the  Blue  Star." 

"But  who  is  this  Elwell?  I  don't  know  the  name." 
[  340  ] 


AFTERWARD 

"Oh,  he's  a  fellow  I  put  into  it — gave  him  a  hand  up. 
I  told  you  all  about  him  at  the  time." 

"I  daresay.  I  must  have  forgotten."  Vainly  she 
strained  back  among  her  memories.  "But  if  you  helped 
him,  why  does  he  make  this  return?" 

"Probably  some  shyster  lawyer  got  hold  of  him  and 
talked  him  over.  It's  all  rather  technical  and  compli- 
cated. I  thought  that  kind  of  thing  bored  you." 

His  wife  felt  a  sting  of  compunction.  Theoretically, 
she  deprecated  the  American  wife's  detachment  from 
her  husband's  professional  interests,  but  in  practice  she 
had  always  found  it  difficult  to  fix  her  attention  on 
Boyne's  report  of  the  transactions  in  which  his  varied 
interests  involved  him.  Besides,  she  had  felt  during 
their  years  of  exile,  that,  in  a  community  where  the 
amenities  of  living  could  be  obtained  only  at  the  cost 
of  efforts  as  arduous  as  her  husband's  professional 
labours,  such  brief  leisure  as  he  and  she  could  command 
should  be  used  as  an  escape  from  immediate  preoc- 
cupations, a  flight  to  the  life  they  always  dreamed  of 
living.  Once  or  twice,  now  that  this  new  life  had  actu- 
ally drawn  its  magic  circle  about  them,  she  had  asked 
herself  if  she  had  done  right;  but  hitherto  such  con- 
jectures had  been  no  more  than  the  retrospective 
excursions  of  an  active  fancy.  Now,  for  the  first  time, 
it  startled  her  a  little  to  find  how  little  she  knew  of  the 
material  foundation  on  which  her  happiness  was  built. 
[341  ] 


AFTERWARD 

She  glanced  at  her  husband,  and  was  again  reassured 
by  the  composure  of  his  face;  yet  she  felt  the  need  of 
more  definite  grounds  for  her  reassurance. 

"But  doesn't  this  suit  worry  you?  Why  have  you 
never  spoken  to  me  about  it  ?  " 

He  answered  both  questions  at  once.  "I  didn't 
speak  of  it  at  first  because  it  did  worry  me — annoyed 
me,  rather.  But  it's  all  ancient  history  now.  Your  corre- 
spondent must  have  got  hold  of  a  back  number  of  the 
Sentinel. " 

She  felt  a  quick  thrill  of  relief.  "You  mean  it's  over? 
He's  lost  his  case?" 

There  was  a  just  perceptible  delay  in  Boyne's  reply. 
"The  suit's  been  withdrawn — that's  all." 

But  she  persisted,  as  if  to  exonerate  herself  from  the 
inward  charge  of  being  too  easily  put  off.  "Withdrawn 
it  because  he  saw  he  had  no  chance  ?" 

"Oh,  he  had  no  chance,"  Boyne  answered. 

She  was  still  struggling  with  a  dimly  felt  perplexity 
at  the  back  of  her  thoughts. 

"How  long  ago  was  it  withdrawn?" 

He  paused,  as  if  with  a  slight  return  of  his  former 
uncertainty.  "I've  just  had  the  news  now;  but  I've  been 
expecting  it." 

"Just  now — in  one  of  your  letters?" 

"Yes;  in  one  of  my  letters." 

She  made  no  answer,  and  was  aware  only,  after  a 
[  342  ] 


AFTERWARD 

short  interval  of  waiting,  that  he  had  risen,  and,  strolling 
across  the  room,  had  placed  himself  on  the  sofa  at  her 
side.  She  felt  him,  as  he  did  so,  pass  an  arm  about  her, 
she  felt  his  hand  seek  hers  and  clasp  it,  and  turning 
slowly,  drawn  by  the  warmth  of  his  cheek,  she  met  his 
smiling  eyes. 

"It's  all  right — it's  all  right?"  she  questioned, 
through  the  flood  of  her  dissolving  doubts;  and  "I 
give  you  my  word  it  was  never  righter!"  he  laughed 
back  at  her,  holding  her  close. 

Ill 

ONE  of  the  strangest  things  she  was  afterward  to  recall 
out  of  all  the  next  day's  strangeness  was  the  sudden  and 
complete  recovery  of  her  sense  of  security. 

It  was  in  the  air  when  she  woke  in  her  low-ceiled , 
dusky  room;  it  went  writh  her  down-stairs  to  the 
breakfast-table,  flashed  out  at  her  from  the  fire,  and  re- 
duplicated itself  from  the  flanks  of  the  urn  and  the 
sturdy  flutings  of  the  Georgian  teapot.  It  was  as  if,  in 
some  roundabout  way,  all  her  diffused  fears  of  the 
previous  day,  with  their  moment  of  sharp  concentra- 
tion about  the  newspaper  article — as  if  this  dim  ques- 
tioning of  the  future,  and  startled  return  upon  the  past, 
had  between  them  liquidated  the  arrears  of  some 
haunting  moral  obligation.  If  she  had  indeed  been 
[  343  ] 


AFTERWARD 

careless  of  her  husband's  affairs,  it  was,  her  new  state 
seemed  to  prove,  because  her  faith  in  him  instinctively 
justified  such  carelessness;  and  his  right  to  her  faith 
had  now  affirmed  itself  in  the  very  face  of  menace  and 
suspicion.  She  had  never  seen  him  more  untroubled, 
more  naturally  and  unconsciously  himself,  than  after 
the  cross-examination  to  which  she  had  subjected  him : 
it  was  almost  as  if  he  had  been  aware  of  her  doubts, 
and  had  wanted  the  air  cleared  as  much  as  she  did. 

It  was  as  clear,  thank  Heaven!  as  the  bright  outer 
light  that  surprised  her  almost  with  a  touch  of  summer 
when  she  issued  from  the  house  for  her  daily  round  of 
the  gardens.  She  had  left  Boyne  at  his  desk,  indulging 
herself,  as  she  passed  the  library  door,  by  a  last  peep 
at  his  quiet  face,  where  he  bent,  pipe  in  mouth,  above 
his  papers;  and  now  she  had  her  own  morning's  task 
to  perform.  The  task  involved,  on  such  charmed 
winter  days,  almost  as  much  happy  loitering  about  the 
different  quarters  of  her  demesne  as  if  spring  were 
already  at  work  there.  There  were  such  endless  pos- 
sibilities still  before  her,  such  opportunities  to  bring 
out  the  latent  graces  of  the  old  place,  without  a  single 
irreverent  touch  of  alteration,  that  the  winter  was 
all  too  short  to  plan  what  spring  and  autumn  ex- 
ecuted. And  her  recovered  sense  of  safety  gave,  on 
this  particular  morning,  a  peculiar  zest  to  her  progress 
through  the  sweet  still  place.  She  went  first  to  the 
[  344  ] 


AFTERWARD 

kitchen-garden,  where  the  espaliered  pear-trees  drew 
complicated  patterns  on  the  walls,  and  pigeons  were 
fluttering  and  preening  about  the  silvery-slated  roof 
of  their  cot.  There  was  something  wrong  about  the 
piping  of  the  hot-house,  and  she  was  expecting  an 
authority  from  Dorchester,  who  was  to  drive  out  be- 
tween trains  and  make  a  diagnosis  of  the  boiler.  But 
when  she  dipped  into  the  damp  heat  of  the  green- 
houses, among  the  spiced  scents  and  waxy  pinks  and 
reds  of  old-fashioned  exotics — even  the  flora  of  Lyng 
was  in  the  note! — she  learned  that  the  great  man  had 
not  arrived,  and,  the  day  being  too  rare  to  waste  in 
an  artificial  atmosphere,  she  came  out  again  and 
paced  along  the  springy  turf  of  the  bowling-green  to 
the  gardens  behind  the  house.  At  their  farther  end  rose 
a  grass  terrace,  looking  across  the  fish-pond  and  yew 
hedges  to  the  long  house-front  with  its  twisted  chimney- 
stacks  and  blue  roof  angles  all  drenched  in  the  pale  gold 
moisture  of  the  air. 

Seen  thus,  across  the  level  tracery  of  the  gardens,  it 
sent  her,  from  open  windows  and  hospitably  smoking 
chimneys,  the  Icpk  of  some  warm  human  presence,  of 
a  mind  slowly  ripened  on  a  sunny  wall  of  experience. 
She  had  never  before  had  such  a  sense  of  her  intimacy 
with  it,  such  a  conviction  that  its  secrets  were  all  be- 
neficent, kept,  as  they  said  to  children,  "for  one's  good," 
such  a  trust  in  its  power  to  gather  up  her  life  and  Ned's 
[  345  ] 


AFTERWARD 

into  the  harmonious  pattern  of  the  long  long  story  it  sat 
there  weaving  in  the  sun. 

She  heard  steps  behind  her,  and  turned,  expecting 
to  see  the  gardener  accompanied  by  the  engineer  from 
Dorchester.  But  only  one  figure  was  in  sight,  that  of  a 
youngish  slightly  built  man,  who,  for  reasons  she  could 
not  on  the  spot  have  given,  did  not  remotely  resemble 
her  notion  of  an  authority  on  hot-house  boilers.  The 
new-comer,  on  seeing  her,  lifted  his  hat,  and  paused 
with  the  air  of  a  gentleman — perhaps  a  traveller — who 
wishes  to  make  it  known  that  his  intrusion  is  involun- 
tary. Lyng  occasionally  attracted  the  more  cultivated 
traveller,  and  Mary  half-expected  to  see  the  stranger 
dissemble  a  camera,  or  justify  his  presence  by  produ- 
cing it.  But  he  made  no  gesture  of  any  sort,  and  after  a 
moment  she  asked,  in  a  tone  responding  to  the  courteous 
hesitation  of  his  attitude:  "Is  there  any  one  you  wish 
to  see?" 

"I  came  to  see  Mr.  Boyne,"  he  answered.  His  intona- 
tion, rather  than  his  accent,  was  faintly  American,  and 
Mary,  at  the  note,  looked  at  him  more  closely.  The 
brim  of  his  soft  felt  hat  cast  a  shade  on  his  face,  which, 
thus  obscured,  wore  to  her  short-sighted  gaze  a  look  of 
seriousness,  as  of  a  person  arriving  "on  business,"  and 
civilly  but  firmly  aware  of  his  rights. 

Past  experience  had  made  her  equally  sensible  to 
such  claims;  but  she  was  jealous  of  her  husband's 
[  346  ] 


AFTERWARD 

morning  hours,  and  doubtful  of  his  having  given  any 
one  the  right  to  intrude  on  them. 

"Have  you  an  appointment  with  my  husband  ?"  she 
asked. 

The  visitor  hesitated,  as  if  unprepared  for  the 
question. 

"I  think  he  expects  me,"  he  replied. 

It  was  Mary's  turn  to  hesitate.  "You  see  this  is  his 
time  for  work:  he  never  sees  any  one  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  without  answering; 
then,  as  if  accepting  her  decision,  he  began  to  move 
away.  As  he  turned,  Mary  saw  him  pause  and  glance 
up  at  the  peaceful  house-front.  Something  in  his  air 
suggested  weariness  and  disappointment,  the  dejection 
of  the  traveller  who  has  come  from  far  off  and  whose 
hours  are  limited  by  the  time-table.  It  occurred  to  her 
that  if  this  were  the  case  her  refusal  might  have  made 
his  errand  vain,  and  a  sense  of  compunction  caused  her 
to  hasten  after  him. 

"May  I  ask  if  you  have  come  a  long  way?" 

He  gave  her  the  same  grave  look.  "Yes — I  have  come 
a  long  way." 

"Then,  if  you'll  go  to  the  house,  no  doubt  my 
husband  will  see  you  now.  You'll  find  him  in  the 
library." 

She  did  not  know  why  she  had  added  the  last  phrase, 
[  347  ] 


AFTERWARD 

except  from  a  vague  impulse  to  atone  for  her  previous 
inhospitality.  The  visitor  seemed  about  to  express  his 
thanks,  but  her  attention  was  distracted  by  the  ap- 
proach of  the  gardener  with  a  companion  who  bore  all 
the  marks  of  being  the  expert  from  Dorchester. 

"This  way,"  she  said,  waving  the  stranger  to  the 
house;  and  an  instant  later  she  had  forgotten  him  in 
the  absorption  of  her  meeting  with  the  boiler-maker. 

The  encounter  led  to  such  far-reaching  results  that 
the  engineer  ended  by  finding  it  expedient  to  ignore 
his  train,  and  Mary  was  beguiled  into  spending  the 
remainder  of  the  morning  in  absorbed  confabulation 
among  the  flower-pots.  When  the  colloquy  ended,  she 
was  surprised  to  find  that  it  was  nearly  luncheon- 
time,  and  she  half  expected,  as  she  hurried  back  to 
the  house,  to  see  her  husband  coming  out  to  meet  her. 
But  she  found  no  one  in  the  court  but  an  under- 
gardener  raking  the  gravel,  and  the  hall,  when  she 
entered  it,  was  so  silent  that  she  guessed  Boyne  to  be 
still  at  work. 

Not  wishing  to  disturb  him,  she  turned  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  there,  at  her  writing-table,  lost  her- 
self in  renewed  calculations  of  the  outlay  to  which  the 
morning's  conference  had  pledged  her.  The  fact  that 
she  could  permit  herself  such  follies  had  not  yet  lost 
its  novelty;  and  somehow,  in  contrast  to  the  vague 
fears  of  the  previous  days,  it  now  seemed  an  ele- 
[  348  ] 


AFTERWARD 

ment  of  her  recovered  security,  of  the  sense  that,  as 
Ned  had  said,  things  in  general  had  never  been 
"righter." 

She  was  still  luxuriating  in  a  lavish  play  of  figures 
when  the  parlour-maid,  from  the  threshold,  roused  her 
with  an  enquiry  as  to  the  expediency  of  serving 
luncheon.  It  was  one  of  their  jokes  that  Trimmle  an- 
nounced luncheon  as  if  she  were  divulging  a  state 
secret,  and  Mary,  intent  upon  her  papers,  merely  mur- 
mured an  absent-minded  assent. 

She  felt  Trimmle  wavering  doubtfully  on  the  thresh- 
old, as  if  in  rebuke  of  such  unconsidered  assent;  then 
her  retreating  steps  sounded  down  the  passage,  and 
Mary,  pushing  away  her  papers,  crossed  the  hall  and 
went  to  the  library  door.  It  was  still  closed,  and  she 
wavered  in  her  turn,  disliking  to  disturb  her  husband, 
yet  anxious  that  he  should  not  exceed  his  usual 
measure  of  work.  As  she  stood  there,  balancing  her 
impulses,  Trimmle  returned  with  the  announcement  of 
luncheon,  and  Mary,  thus  impelled,  opened  the  library 
door. 

Boyne  was  not  at  his  desk,  and  she  peered  about 
her,  expecting  to  discover  him  before  the  book-shelves, 
somewhere  down  the  length  of  the  room;  but  her  call 
brought  no  response,  and  gradually  it  became  clear  to 
her  that  he  was  not  there. 

She  turned  back  to  the  parlour-maid. 
[  349  ] 


AFTERWARD 

"Mr.  Boyne  must  be  up-stairs.  Please  tell  him  that 
luncheon  is  ready." 

Trimmle  appeared  to  hesitate  between  the  obvious 
duty  of  obedience  and  an  equally  obvious  conviction 
of  the  foolishness  of  the  injunction  laid  on  her.  The 
struggle  resulted  in  her  saying:  "If  you  please,  Madam, 
Mr.  Boyne's  not  up-stairs." 

"Not  in  his  room ?  Are  you  sure  ?" 

"I'm  sure,  Madam." 

Mary  consulted  the  clock.  "Where  is  he,  then?" 

"He's  gone  out,"  Trimmle  announced,  with  the 
superior  air  of  one  who  has  respectfully  waited  for  the 
question  that  a  well-ordered  mind  would  have  put 
first. 

Mary's  conjecture  had  been  right,  then.  Boyne  must 
have  gone  to  the  gardens  to  meet  her,  and  since  she 
had  missed  him,  it  was  clear  that  he  had  taken  the 
shorter  way  by  the  south  door,  instead  of  going  round 
to  the  court.  She  crossed  the  hall  to  the  French 
window  opening  directly  on  the  yew  garden,  but  the 
parlour-maid,  after  another  moment  of  inner  conflict, 
decided  to  bring  out:  "Please,  Madam,  Mr.  Boyne 
didn't  go  that  way." 

Mary  turned  back.  "Where  did  he  go  ?  And  when  ?" 

"He  went  out  of  the  front  door,  up  the  drive,  Mad- 
am." It  was  a  matter  of  principle  with  Trimmle  never 
to  answer  more  than  one  question  at  a  time. 
[  350  ] 


AFTERWARD 

"  Up  the  drive  ?  At  this  hour  ?  "  Mary  went  to  the  door 
herself,  and  glanced  across  the  court  through  the  tunnel 
of  bare  limes.  But  its  perspective  was  as  empty  as  when 
she  had  scanned  it  on  entering. 

"Did  Mr.  Boyne  leave  no  message?" 

Trimmle  seemed  to  surrender  herself  to  a  last  strug- 
gle with  the  forces  of  chaos. 

"No,  Madam.  He  just  went  out  with  the  gentle- 
man." 

"The  gentleman  ?  What  gentleman  ?"  Mary  wheeled 
about,  as  if  to  front  this  new  factor. 

"The  gentleman  who  called,  Madam,"  said  Trimmle 
resignedly. 

"When  did  a  gentleman  call?  Do  explain  yourself, 
Trimmle!" 

Only  the  fact  that  Mary  was  very  hungry,  and  that 
she  wanted  to  consult  her  husband  about  the  green- 
houses, would  have  caused  her  to  lay  so  unusual  an  in- 
junction on  her  attendant;  and  even  now  she  was  de- 
tached enough  to  note  in  Trimmle's  eye  the  dawning 
defiance  of  the  respectful  subordinate  who  has  been 
pressed  too  hard. 

"I  couldn't  exactly  say  the  hour,  Madam,  because 
I  didn't  let  the  gentleman  in,"  she  replied,  with  an  air 
of  discreetly  ignoring  the  irregularity  of  her  mistress's 
course. 

"You  didn't  let  him  in?" 

[  351  ] 


AFTERWARD 

"No,  Madam.  When  the  bell  rang  I  was  dressing,  and 
Agnes — 

"Go  and  ask  Agnes,  then,"  said  Mary. 

Trimmle  still  wore  her  look  of  patient  magnanimity. 
"Agnes  would  not  know,  Madam,  for  she  had  unfor- 
tunately burnt  her  hand  in  trimming  the  wick  of  the 
new  lamp  from  town" — Trimmle,  as  Mary  was  aware, 
had  always  been  opposed  to  the  new  lamp — "and  so 
Mrs.  Dockett  sent  the  kitchen-maid  instead." 

Mary  looked  again  at  the  clock.  "It's  after  two!  Go 
and  ask  the  kitchen-maid  if  Mr.  Boyne  left  any  word." 

She  went  into  luncheon  without  waiting,  and  Trimmle 
presently  brought  her  there  the  kitchen-maid's  state- 
ment that  the  gentleman  had  called  about  eleven 
o'clock,  and  that  Mr.  Boyne  had  gone  out  with  him 
without  leaving  any  message.  The  kitchen-maid  did 
not  even  know  the  caller's  name,  for  he  had  written  it 
on  a  slip  of  paper,  which  he  had  folded  and  handed  to 
her,  with  the  injunction  to  deliver  it  at  once  to  Mr. 
Boyne. 

Mary  finished  her  luncheon,  still  wondering,  and 
when  it  was  over,  and  Trimmle  had  brought  the  coffee 
to  the  drawing-room,  her  wonder  had  deepened  to  a 
first  faint  tinge  of  disquietude.  It  was  unlike  Boyne  to 
absent  himself  without  explanation  at  so  unwonted  an 
hour,  and  the  difficulty  of  identifying  the  visitor  whose 
summons  he  had  apparently  obeyed  made  his  disap- 
[  352  ] 


AFTERWARD 

pearance  the  more  unaccountable.  Mary  Boyne's  ex- 
perience as  the  wife  of  a  busy  engineer,  subject  to  sud- 
den calls  and  compelled  to  keep  irregular  hours,  had 
trained  her  to  the  philosophic  acceptance  of  surprises; 
but  since  Boyne's  withdrawal  from  business  he  had 
adopted  a  Benedictine  regularity  of  life.  As  if  to  make 
up  for  the  dispersed  and  agitated  years,  with  their 
"stand-up"  lunches,  and  dinners  rattled  down  to  the 
joltings  of  the  dining-cars,  he  cultivated  the  last  refine- 
ments of  punctuality  and  monotony,  discouraging  his 
wife's  fancy  for  the  unexpected,  and  declaring  that  to 
a  delicate  taste  there  were  infinite  gradations  of  pleasure 
in  the  recurrences  of  habit. 

Still,  since  no  life  can  completely  defend  itself  from 
the  unforeseen,  it  was  evident  that  all  Boyne's  precau- 
tions would  sooner  or  later  prove  unavailable,  and  Mary 
concluded  that  he  had  cut  short  a  tiresome  visit  by 
walking  with  his  caller  to  the  station,  or  at  least  ac- 
companying him  for  part  of  the  way. 

This  conclusion  relieved  her  from  farther  preoccu- 
pation, and  she  went  out  herself  to  take  up  her  confer- 
ence with  the  gardener.  Thence  she  walked  to  the  vil- 
lage post-office,  a  mile  or  so  away;  and  when  she  turned 
toward  home  the  early  twilight  was  setting  in. 

She  had  taken  a  foot-path  across  the  downs,  and  as 
Boyne,  meanwhile,  had  probably  returned  from  the 
station  by  the  highroad,  there  was  little  likelihood  of 
[  353  ] 


AFTERWARD 

their  meeting.  She  felt  sure,  however,  of  his  having 
reached  the  house  before  her;  so  sure  that,  when  she 
entered  it  herself,  without  even  pausing  to  inquire  of 
Trimmle,  she  made  directly  for  the  library.  But  the 
library  was  still  empty,  and  with  an  unwonted  exactness 
of  visual  memory  she  observed  that  the  papers  on  her 
husband's  desk  lay  precisely  as  they  had  lain  when  she 
had  gone  in  to  call  him  to  luncheon. 

Then  of  a  sudden  she  was  seized  by  a  vague  dread  of 
the  unknown.  She  had  closed  the  door  behind  her  on 
entering,  and  as  she  stood  alone  in  the  long  silent 
room,  her  dread  seemed  to  take  shape  and  sound,  to 
be  there  breathing  and  lurking  among  the  shadows. 
Her  short-sighted  eyes  strained  through  them,  half- 
discerning  an  actual  presence,  something  aloof,  that 
watched  and  knew;  and  in  the  recoil  from  that  in- 
tangible presence  she  threw  herself  on  the  bell-rope  and 
gave  it  a  sharp  pull. 

The  sharp  summons  brought  Trimmle  in  precipitately 
with  a  lamp,  and  Mary  breathed  again  at  this  sobering 
reappearance  of  the  usual. 

"You  may  bring  tea  if  Mr.  Boyne  is  in,"  she  said, 
to  justify  her  ring. 

"Very  well,  Madam.  But  Mr.  Boyne  is  not  in,"  said 
Trimmle,  putting  down  the  lamp. 

"Not  in?  You  mean  he's  come  back  and  gone  out 
again?" 

[  354  ] 


AFTERWARD 

"No,  Madam.  He's  never  been  back." 

The  dread  stirred  again,  and  Mary  knew  that  now 
it  had  her  fast. 

"Not  since  he  went  out  with — the  gentleman?" 

"Not  since  he  went  out  with  the  gentleman." 

"  But  who  was  the  gentleman  ?"  Mary  insisted,  with 
the  shrill  note  of  some  one  trying  to  be  heard  through 
a  confusion  of  noises. 

"That  I  couldn't  say,  Madam."  Trimmle,  standing 
there  by  the  lamp,  seemed  suddenly  to  grow  less  round 
and  rosy,  as  though  eclipsed  by  the  same  creeping 
shade  of  apprehension. 

"But  the  kitchen-maid  knows — wasn't  it  the  kitchen- 
maid  who  let  him  in  ?" 

"She  doesn't  know  either,  Madam,  for  he  wrote  his 
name  on  a  folded  paper." 

Mary,  through  her  agitation,  was  aware  that  they 
were  both  designating  the  unknown  visitor  by  a  vague 
pronoun,  instead  of  the  conventional  formula  which, 
till  then,  had  kept  their  allusions  within  the  bounds  of 
conformity.  And  at  the  same  moment  her  mind  caught 
at  the  suggestion  of  the  folded  paper. 

"But  he  must  have  a  name!  Where's  the  pa- 
per?" 

She  moved  to  the  desk,  and  began  to  turn  over  the 
documents  that  littered  it.  The  first  that  caught  her  eye 
was  an  unfinished  letter  in  her  husband's  hand,  with  his 
[  355  ] 


AFTERWARD 

pen  lying  across  it,  as  though  dropped  there  at  a  sud- 
den summons. 

"My  dear  Parvis" — who  was  Parvis? — "I  have  just 
received  your  letter  announcing  Elwell's  death,  and 
while  I  suppose  there  is  now  no  farther  risk  of  trouble, 
it  might  be  safer — 

She  tossed  the  sheet  aside,  and  continued  her  search; 
but  no  folded  paper  was  discoverable  among  the  letters 
and  pages  of  manuscript  which  had  been  swept  to- 
gether in  a  heap,  as  if  by  a  hurried  or  a  startled  gesture. 

"But  the  kitchen-maid  saw  him.  Send  her  here," 
she  commanded,  wondering  at  her  dulness  in  not 
thinking  sooner  of  so  simple  a  solution. 

Trimmle  vanished  in  a  flash,  as  if  thankful  to  be 
out  of  the  room,  and  when  she  reappeared,  conducting 
the  agitated  underling,  Mary  had  regained  her  self- 
possession,  and  had  her  questions  ready. 

The  gentleman  was  a  stranger,  yes — that  she  under- 
stood. But  what  had  he  said  ?  And,  above  all,  what  had 
he  looked  like?  The  first  question  was  easily  enough 
answered,  for  the  disconcerting  reason  that  he  had  said 
so  little — had  merely  asked  for  Mr.  Boyne,  and,  scrib- 
bling something  on  a  bit  of  paper,  had  requested  that 
it  should  at  once  be  carried  in  to  him. 

"Then  you  don't  know  what  he  wrote?  You're  not 
sure  it  was  his  name  ?" 

The  kitchen-maid  was  not  sure,  but  supposed  it  was, 
[  356  ] 


AFTERWARD 

since  he  had  written  it  in  answer  to  her  inquiry  as  to 
whom  she  should  announce. 

"And  when  you  carried  the  paper  in  to  Mr.  Boyne, 
what  did  he  say?" 

The  kitchen-maid  did  not  think  that  Mr.  Boyne  had 
said  anything,  but  she  could  not  be  sure,  for  just  as  she 
had  handed  him  the  paper  and  he  was  opening  it, 
she  had  become  aware  that  the  visitor  had  followed  her 
into  the  library,  and  she  had  slipped  out,  leaving  the 
two  gentlemen  together. 

"But  then,  if  you  left  them  in  the  library,  how  do  you 
know  that  they  went  out  of  the  house?" 

This  question  plunged  the  witness  into  a  momentary 
inarticulateness,  from  which  she  was  rescued  by 
Trimmle,  who,  by  means  of  ingenious  circumlocutions, 
elicited  the  statement  that  before  she  could  cross  the 
hall  to  the  back  passage  she  had  heard  the  two 
gentlemen  behind  her,  and  had  seen  them  go  out  of 
the  front  door  together. 

"Then,  if  you  saw  the  strange  gentleman  twice,  you 
must  be  able  to  tell  me  what  he  looked  like." 

But  with  this  final  challenge  to  her  powers  of  ex- 
pression it  became  clear  that  the  limit  of  the  kitchen- 
maid's  endurance  had  been  reached.  The  obligation  of 
going  to  the  front  door  to  "show  in"  a  visitor  was  in 
itself  so  subversive  of  the  fundamental  order  of  things 
that  it  had  thrown  her  faculties  into  hopeless  disarray, 
[357  ] 


AFTERWARD 

and  she  could  only  stammer  out,  after  various  panting 
efforts:  "His  hat,  mum,  was  different-like,  as  you 
might  say — 

"Different?  How  different?"  Mary  flashed  out,  her 
own  mind,  in  the  same  instant,  leaping  back  to  an  image 
left  on  it  that  morning,  and  then  lost  under  layers  of 
subsequent  impressions. 

"His  hat  had  a  wide  brim,  you  mean?  and  his  face 
was  pale — a  youngish  face  ? "  Mary  pressed  her,  with 
a  white-lipped  intensity  of  interrogation.  But  if  the 
kitchen-maid  found  any  adequate  answer  to  this  chal- 
lenge, it  was  swept  away  for  her  listener  down  the  rush- 
ing current  of  her  own  convictions.  The  stranger — the 
stranger  in  the  garden!  Why  had  Mary  not  thought  of 
him  before  ?  She  needed  no  one  now  to  tell  her  that  it 
was  he  who  had  called  for  her  husband  and  gone  away 
with  him.  But  who  was  he,  and  why  had  Boyne  obeyed 
him? 

IV 

IT  leaped  out  at  her  suddenly,  like  a  grin  out  of  the 
dark,  that  they  had  often  called  England  so  little — 
"such  a  confoundedly  hard  place  to  get  lost  in." 

A  confoundedly  hard  place  to  get  lost  in !  That  had 
been  her  husband's  phrase.  And  now,  with  the  whole 
machinery  of  official  investigation  sweeping  its  flash- 
lights from  shore  to  shore,  and  across  the  dividing 
[  358  ] 


AFTERWARD 

straits;  now,  with  Boyne's  name  blazing  from  the  walls 
of  every  town  and  village,  his  portrait  (how  that  wrung 
her!)  hawked  up  and  down  the  country  like  the  image 
of  a  hunted  criminal;  now  the  little  compact  populous 
island,  so  policed,  surveyed  and  administered,  revealed 
itself  as  a  Sphinx-like  guardian  of  abysmal  mysteries, 
staring  back  into  his  wife's  anguished  eyes  as  if  with 
the  wicked  joy  of  knowing  something  they  would 
never  know! 

In  the  fortnight  since  Boyne's  disappearance  there 
had  been  no  word  of  him,  no  trace  of  his  movements. 
Even  the  usual  misleading  reports  that  raise  expectancy 
in  tortured  bosoms  had  been  few  and  fleeting.  No  one 
but  the  kitchen-maid  had  seen  Boyne  leave  the  house, 
and  no  one  else  had  seen  "the  gentleman"  who  ac- 
companied him.  All  enquiries  in  the  neighbourhood 
failed  to  elicit  the  memory  of  a  stranger's  presence  that 
day  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Lyng.  And  no  one  had 
met  Edward  Boyne,  either  alone  or  in  company,  in 
any  of  the  neighbouring  villages,  or  on  the  road  across 
the  downs,  or  at  either  of  the  local  railway-stations. 
The  sunny  English  noon  had  swallowed  him  as  com- 
pletely as  if  he  had  gone  out  into  Cimmerian  night. 

Mary,  while  every  official  means  of  investigation 
was  working  at  its  highest  pressure,  had  ransacked  her 
husband's  papers  for  any  trace  of  antecedent  compli- 
cations, of  entanglements  or  obligations  unknown  to 
[  359  ] 


AFTERWARD 

her,  that  might  throw  a  ray  into  the  darkness.  But  if 
any  such  had  existed  in  the  background  of  Boyne's 
life,  they  had  vanished  like  the  slip  of  paper  on  which 
the  visitor  had  written  his  name.  There  remained  no 
possible  thread  of  guidance  except — if  it  were  indeed  an 
exception — the  letter  which  Boyne  had  apparently  been 
in  the  act  of  writing  when  he  received  his  mysterious 
summons.  That  letter,  read  and  reread  by  his  wife, 
and  submitted  by  her  to  the  police,  yielded  little 
enough  to  feed  conjecture. 

"I  have  just  heard  of  Elwell's  death,  and  while  I 
suppose  there  is  now  no  farther  risk  of  trouble,  it 
might  be  safer "  That  was  all.  The  "risk  of  trou- 
ble" was  easily  explained  by  the  newspaper  clipping 
which  had  apprised  Mary  of  the  suit  brought  against 
her  husband  by  one  of  his  associates  in  the  Blue  Star 
enterprise.  The  only  new  information  conveyed  by  the 
letter  was  the  fact  of  its  showing  Boyne,  when  he  wrote 
it,  to  be  still  apprehensive  of  the  results  of  the  suit, 
though  he  had  told  his  wife  that  it  had  been  with- 
drawn, and  though  the  letter  itself  proved  that  the 
plaintiff  was  dead.  It  took  several  days  of  cabling  to 
fix  the  identity  of  the  "Parvis"  to  whom  the  fragment 
was  addressed,  but  even  after  these  enquiries  had 
shown  him  to  be  a  Waukesha  lawyer,  no  new  facts  con- 
cerning the  Elwell  suit  were  elicited.  He  appeared  to 
have  had  no  direct  concern  in  it,  but  to  have  been  con- 
[  360  ] 


AFTERWARD 

versant  with  the  facts  merely  as  an  acquaintance,  and 
possible  intermediary;  and  he  declared  himself  unable 
to  guess  with  what  object  Boyne  intended  to  seek  his 
assistance. 

This  negative  information,  sole  fruit  of  the  first 
fortnight's  search,  was  not  increased  by  a  jot  during 
the  slow  weeks  that  followed.  Mary  knew  that  the 
investigations  were  still  being  carried  on,  but  she  had 
a  vague  sense  of  their  gradually  slackening,  as  the 
actual  march  of  time  seemed  to  slacken.  It  was  as 
though  the  days,  flying  horror-struck  from  the  shrouded 
image  of  the  one  inscrutable  day,  gained  assurance  as 
the  distance  lengthened,  till  at  last  they  fell  back  into 
their  normal  gait.  And  so  with  the  human  imaginations 
at  work  on  the  dark  event.  No  doubt  it  occupied  them 
still,  but  week  by  week  and  hour  by  hour  it  grew  less 
absorbing,  took  up  less  space,  was  slowly  but  inevitably 
crowded  out  of  the  foreground  of  consciousness  by  the 
new  problems  perpetually  bubbling  up  from  the  cloudy 
caldron  of  human  experience. 

Even  Mary  Boyne's  consciousness  gradually  felt  the 
same  lowering  of  velocity.  It  still  swayed  with  the  in- 
cessant oscillations  of  conjecture;  but  they  were  slower, 
more  rhythmical  in  their  beat.  There  were  even  mo- 
ments of  weariness  when,  like  the  victim  of  some  poison 
which  leaves  the  brain  clear,  but  holds  the  body 
motionless,  she  saw  herself  domesticated  with  the 
[361  ] 


AFTERWARD 

Horror,  accepting  its  perpetual  presence  as  one  of  the 
fixed  conditions  of  life. 

These  moments  lengthened  into  hours  and  days,  till 
she  passed  into  a  phase  of  stolid  acquiescence.  She 
watched  the  routine  of  daily  life  with  the  incurious 
eye  of  a  savage  on  whom  the  meaningless  processes  of 
civilisation  make  but  the  faintest  impression.  She  had 
come  to  regard  herself  as  part  of  the  routine,  a  spoke  of 
the  wheel,  revolving  with  its  motion ;  she  felt  almost  like 
the  furniture  of  the  room  in  which  she  sat,  an  insensate 
object  to  be  dusted  and  pushed  about  with  the  chairs 
and  tables.  And  this  deepening  apathy  held  her  fast 
at  Lyng,  in  spite  of  the  entreaties  of  friends  and 
the  usual  medical  recommendation  of  "change."  Her 
friends  supposed  that  her  refusal  to  move  was  inspired 
by  the  belief  that  her  husband  would  one  day  return  to 
the  spot  from  which  he  had  vanished,  and  a  beautiful 
legend  grew  up  about  this  imaginary  state  of  waiting. 
But  in  reality  she  had  no  such  belief:  the  depths  of 
anguish  enclosing  her  were  no  longer  lighted  by  flashes 
of  hope.  She  was  sure  that  Boyne  would  never  come 
back,  that  he  had  gone  out  of  her  sight  as  completely 
as  if  Death  itself  had  waited  that  day  on  the  threshold. 
She  had  even  renounced,  one  by  one,  the  various  theo- 
ries as  to  his  disappearance  which  had  been  advanced 
by  the  press,  the  police,  and  her  own  agonised  imagina- 
tion. In  sheer  lassitude  her  mind  turned  from  these 
[  362  ] 


AFTERWARD 

alternatives  of  horror,  and  sank  back  into  the  blank 
fact  that  he  was  gone. 

No,  she  would  never  know  what  had  become  of 
him — no  one  would  ever  know.  But  the  house  knew  ; 
the  library  in  which  she  spent  her  long  lonely  evenings 
knew.  For  it  was  here  that  the  last  scene  had  been 
enacted,  here  that  the  stranger  had  come,  and  spoken 
the  word  which  had  caused  Boyne  to  rise  and  follow 
him.  The  floor  she  trod  had  felt  his  tread;  the  books 
on  the  shelves  had  seen  his  face;  and  there  were  mo- 
ments when  the  intense  consciousness  of  the  old  dusky 
walls  seemed  about  to  break  out  into  some  audible 
revelation  of  their  secret.  But  the  revelation  never  came, 
and  she  knew  it  would  never  come.  Lyng  was  not  one 
of  the  garrulous  old  houses  that  betray  the  secrets 
entrusted  to  them.  Its  very  legend  proved  that  it  had 
always  been  the  mute  accomplice,  the  incorruptible 
custodian,  of  the  mysteries  it  had  surprised.  And  Mary 
Boyne,  sitting  face  to  face  with  its  silence,  felt  the 
futility  of  seeking  to  break  it  by  any  human  means. 


"I  DON'T  say  it  wasn't  straight,  and  yet  I  don't  say  it 
was  straight.  It  was  business." 

Mary,  at  the  words,  lifted  her  head  with  a  start, 
and  looked  intently  at  the  speaker. 
[  363  ] 


AFTERWARD 

When,  half  an  hour  before,  a  card  with  "Mr.  Parvis" 
on  it  had  been  brought  up  to  her,  she  had  been  im- 
mediately aware  that  the  name  had  been  a  part  of 
her  consciousness  ever  since  she  had  read  it  at  the  head 
of  Boyne's  unfinished  letter.  In  the  library  she  had  found 
awaiting  her  a  small  sallow  man  with  a  bald  head  and 
gold  eye-glasses,  and  it  sent  a  tremor  through  her  to 
know  that  this  was  the  person  to  whom  her  husband's 
last  known  thought  had  been  directed. 

Parvis,  civilly,  but  without  vain  preamble — in  the 
manner  of  a  man  who  has  his  watch  in  his  hand — had 
set  forth  the  object  of  his  visit.  He  had  "run  over"  to 
England  on  business,  and  finding  himself  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Dorchester,  had  not  wished  to  leave  it 
without  paying  his  respects  to  Mrs.  Boyne;  and  without 
asking  her,  if  the  occasion  offered,  what  she  meant  to 
do  about  Bob  Elwell's  family. 

The  words  touched  the  spring  of  some  obscure  dread 
in  Mary's  bosom.  Did  her  visitor,  after  all,  know  what 
Boyne  had  meant  by  his  unfinished  phrase  ?  She  asked 
for  an  elucidation  of  his  question,  and  noticed  at  once 
that  he  seemed  surprised  at  her  continued  ignorance 
of  the  subject.  Was  it  possible  that  she  really  knew  as 
little  as  she  said  ? 

"I  know  nothing — you  must  tell  me,"  she  faltered 
out;  and  her  visitor  thereupon  proceeded  to  unfold  his 
story.  It  threw,  even  to  her  confused  perceptions,  and 
[  364  ] 


AFTERWARD 

imperfectly  initiated  vision,  a  lurid  glare  on  the  whole 
hazy  episode  of  the  Blue  Star  Mine.  Her  husband  had 
made  his  money  in  that  brilliant  speculation  at  the 
cost  of  "getting  ahead"  of  some  one  less  alert  to  seize 
the  chance;  and  the  victim  of  his  ingenuity  was  young 
Robert  Elwell,  who  had  "put  him  on"  to  the  Blue 
Star  scheme. 

Parvis,  at  Mary's  first  cry,  had  thrown  her  a  sober- 
ing glance  through  his  impartial  glasses. 

"Bob  Elwell  wasn't  smart  enough,  that's  all;  if 
he  had  been,  he  might  have  turned  round  and  served 
Boyne  the  same  way.  It's  the  kind  of  thing  that  hap- 
pens every  day  in  business.  I  guess  it's  what  the 
scientists  call  the  survival  of  the  fittest — see  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Parvis,  evidently  pleased  with  the  aptness  of  his 
analogy. 

Mary  felt  a  physical  shrinking  from  the  next  ques- 
tion she  tried  to  frame:  it  was  as  though  the  words  on 
her  lips  had  a  taste  that  nauseated  her. 

"But  then — you  accuse  my  husband  of  doing  some- 
thing dishonourable  ?  " 

Mr.  Parvis  surveyed  the  question  dispassionately. 
"Oh,  no,  I  don't.  I  don't  even  say  it  wasn't  straight." 
He  glanced  up  and  down  the  long  lines  of  books,  as  if 
one  of  them  might  have  supplied  him  with  the  defini- 
tion he  sought.  "I  don't  say  it  wasn't  straight,  and  yet 
I  don't  say  it  was  straight.  It  was  business."  After  all, 
[  365  ] 


AFTERWARD 

no  definition  in  his  category  could  be  more  compre- 
hensive than  that. 

Mary  sat  staring  at  him  with  a  look  of  terror.  He 
seemed  to  her  like  the  indifferent  emissary  of  some 
evil  power. 

"But  Mr.  Elwell's  lawyers  apparently  did  not  take 
your  view,  since  I  suppose  the  suit  was  withdrawn  by 
their  advice." 

"Oh,  yes;  they  knew  he  hadn't  a  leg  to  stand  on, 
technically.  It  was  when  they  advised  him  to  withdraw 
the  suit  that  he  got  desperate.  You  see,  he'd  borrowed 
most  of  the  money  he  lost  in  the  Blue  Star,  and  he  was 
up  a  tree.  That's  why  he  shot  himself  when  they  told 
him  he  had  no  show." 

The  horror  was  sweeping  over  Mary  in  great  deafen- 
ing waves. 

"He  shot  himself?  He  killed  himself  because  of 
that?" 

"Well,  he  didn't  kill  himself,  exactly.  He  dragged  on 
two  months  before  he  died."  Parvis  emitted  the  state- 
ment as  unemotionally  as  a  gramophone  grinding  out 
its  "record." 

"You  mean  that  he  tried  to  kill  himself,  and  failed  ? 
And  tried  again?" 

"Oh,  he  didn't  have  to  try  again,"  said  Parvis 
grimly. 

They  sat  opposite  each  other  in  silence,  he  swinging 
[  366  ] 


AFTERWARD 

his  eye-glasses  thoughtfully  about  his  finger,  she, 
motionless,  her  arms  stretched  along  her  knees  in  an 
attitude  of  rigid  tension. 

"But  if  you  knew  all  this,"  she  began  at  length, 
hardly  able  to  force  her  voice  above  a  whisper,  "how 
is  it  that  when  I  wrote  you  at  the  time  of  my  husband's 
disappearance  you  said  you  didn't  understand  his 
letter?" 

Parvis  received  this  without  perceptible  embarrass- 
ment: "Why,  I  didn't  understand  it — strictly  speaking. 
And  it  wasn't  the  time  to  talk  about  it,  if  I  had.  The 
Elwell  business  was  settled  when  the  suit  was  with- 
drawn. Nothing  I  could  have  told  you  would  have 
helped  you  to  find  your  husband." 

Mary  continued  to  scrutinise  him.  "Then  why  are 
you  telling  me  now?" 

Still  Parvis  did  not  hesitate.  "Well,  to  begin  with,  I 
supposed  you  knew  more  than  you  appear  to — I  mean 
about  the  circumstances  of  Elwell's  death.  And  then 
people  are  talking  of  it  now;  the  whole  matter's  been 
raked  up  again.  And  I  thought  if  you  didn't  know  you 
ought  to." 

She  remained  silent,  and  he  continued:  "You  see, 
it's  only  come  out  lately  what  a  bad  state  Elwell's 
affairs  were  in.  His  wife's  a  proud  woman,  and  she 
fought  on  as  long  as  she  could,  goin  ^  out  to  work,  and 
taking  sewing  at  home  when  she  got  too  sick — some- 
[  367  ] 


AFTERWARD 

thing  with  the  heart,  I  believe.  But  she  had  his  mother 
to  look  after,  and  the  children,  and  she  broke  down 
under  it,  and  finally  had  to  ask  for  help.  That  called 
attention  to  the  case,  and  the  papers  took  it  up,  and 
a  subscription  was  started.  Everybody  out  there  liked 
Bob  Elwell,  and  most  of  the  prominent  names  in  the 
place  are  down  on  the  list,  and  people  began  to 
wonder  why " 

Parvis  broke  off  to  fumble  in  an  inner  pocket. 
"Here,"  he  continued,  "here's  an  account  of  the  whole 
thing  from  the  Sentinel — a  little  sensational,  of  course. 
But  I  guess  you'd  better  look  it  over." 

He  held  out  a  newspaper  to  Mary,  who  unfolded  it 
slowly,  remembering,  as  she  did  so,  the  evening  when, 
in  that  same  room,  the  perusal  of  a  clipping  from  the 
Sentinel  had  first  shaken  the  depths  of  her  security. 

As  she  opened  the  paper,  her  eyes,  shrinking  from 
the  glaring  headlines,  "Widow  of  Boyne's  Victim 
Forced  to  Appeal  for  Aid,"  ran  down  the  column  of 
text  to  two  portraits  inserted  in  it.  The  first  was  her 
husband's,  taken  from  a  photograph  made  the  year  they 
had  come  to  England.  It  was  the  picture  of  him  that 
she  liked  best,  the  one  that  stood  on  the  writing-table 
up-stairs  in  her  bedroom.  As  the  eyes  in  the  photograph 
met  hers,  she  felt  it  would  be  impossible  to  read  what 
was  said  of  him,  and  closed  her  lids  with  the  sharpness 
of  the  pain.  \ 

[  368  ] 


AFTERWARD 

"I  thought  if  you  felt  disposed  to  put  your  name 
down —  "  she  heard  Parvis  continue. 

She  opened  her  eyes  with  an  effort,  and  they  fell 
on  the  other  portrait.  It  was  that  of  a  youngish  man, 
slightly  built,  with  features  somewhat  blurred  by  the 
shadow  of  a  projecting  hat-brim.  Where  had  she  seen 
that  outline  before?  She  stared  at  it  confusedly, 
her  heart  hammering  in  her  ears.  Then  she  gave  a 
cry. 

"This  is  the  man — the  man  who  came  for  my  hus- 
band!" 

She  heard  Parvis  start  to  his  feet,  and  was  dimly 
aware  that  she  had  slipped  backward  into  the  corner 
of  the  sofa,  and  that  he  was  bending  above  her  in  alarm. 
She  straightened  herself,  and  reached  out  for  the  paper, 
which  she  had  dropped. 

"It's  the  man!  I  should  know  him  anywhere!"  she 
persisted  in  a  voice  that  sounded  to  her  ov.'n  ears  like 
a  scream. 

Parvis's  answer  seemed  to  come  to  her  from  far  off, 
down  endless  fog-muffled  windings. 

"Mrs.  Boyne,  you're  not  very  well.  Shall  I  call  some- 
body ?  Shall  I  get  a  glass  of  water?" 

"No,  no,  no!"  She  threw  herself  toward  him,  her 
hand  frantically  clutching  the  newspaper.  "I  tell  you, 
it's  the  man !  I  know  him !  He  spoke  to  me  in  the  garden !" 

Parvis  took  the  journal  from  her,  directing  his  glasses 
[  369  ] 


AFTERWARD 

to  the  portrait.  "It  can't  be,  Mrs.  Boyne.  It's  Robert 
Elwell." 

"Robert  Elwell?"  Her  white  stare  seemed  to  travel 
into  space.  "Then  it  was  Robert  Elwell  who  came  for 
him." 

"Came  for  Boyne?  The  day  he  went  away  from 
here"  Parvis's  voice  dropped  as  hers  rose.  He  bent 
over,  laying  a  fraternal  hand  on  her,  as  if  to  coax  her 
gently  back  into  her  seat.  "Why,  Elwell  was  dead! 
Don't  you  remember?" 

Mary  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  picture,  uncon- 
scious of  what  he  was  saying. 

"Don't  you  remember  Boyne's  unfinished  letter  to 
me — the  one  you  found  on  his  desk  that  day?  It  was 
written  just  after  he'd  heard  of  Elwell's  death."  She 
noticed  an  odd  shake  in  Parvis's  unemotional  voice. 
"Surely  you  remember!"  he  urged  her. 

Yes,  she  remembered:  that  was  the  profoundest 
horror  of  it.  Elwell  had  died  the  day  before  her  hus- 
band's disappearance;  and  this  was  Elwell's  portrait; 
and  it  was  the  portrait  of  the  man  who  had  spoken  to 
her  in  the  garden.  She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  slowly 
about  the  library.  The  library  could  have  borne  wit- 
ness that  it  was  also  the  portrait  of  the  man  who  had 
come  in  that  day  to  call  Boyne  from  his  unfinished 
letter.  Through  the  misty  surgings  of  her  brain  she 
heard  the  faint  boom  of  half-forgotten  words — words 
[  370  ] 


AFTERWARD 

spoken  by  Alida  Stair  on  the  lawn  at  Pangbourne  be- 
fore Boyne  and  his  wife  had  ever  seen  the  house  at 
Lyng,  or  had  imagined  that  they  might  one  day  live 
there. 

"This  was  the  man  who  spoke  to  me,"  she  repeated. 

She  looked  again  at  Parvis.  He  was  trying  to  conceal 
his  disturbance  under  what  he  probably  imagined  to 
be  an  expression  of  indulgent  commiseration;  but  the 
edges  of  his  lips  were  blue.  "He  thinks  me  mad;  but 
I'm  not  mad,"  she  reflected;  and  suddenly  there  flashed 
upon  her  a  way  of  justifying  her  strange  affirmation. 

She  sat  quiet,  controlling  the  quiver  of  her  lips,  and 
waiting  till  she  could  trust  her  voice;  then  she  said, 
looking  straight  at  Parvis:  "Will  you  answer  me  one 
question,  please  ?  When  was  it  that  Robert  El  well 
tried  to  kill  himself?" 

"When — when?"  Parvis  stammered. 

"Yes;  the  date.  Please  try  to  remember." 

She  saw  that  he  was  growing  still  more  afraid  of 
her.  "I  have  a  reason,"  she  insisted. 

"Yes,  yes.  Only  I  can't  remember.  About  two 
months  before,  I  should  say." 

"I  want  the  date,"  she  repeated. 

Parvis  picked  up  the  newspaper.  "We  might  see 
here,"  he  said,  still  humouring  her.  He  ran  his  eyes 
down  the  page.  "Here  it  is.  Last  October — the— 

She  caught  the  words  from  him.  "The  20th,  wasn't 
[  371  ] 


AFTERWARD 

it?"  With  a  sharp  look  at  her,  he  verified.  "Yes,  the 
20th.  Then  you  did  know?" 

"I  know  now."  Her  gaze  continued  to  travel  past 
him.  "Sunday,  the  20th — that  was  the  day  he  came 
first." 

Parvis's  voice  was  almost  inaudible.  "Came  here 
first?" 

"Yes." 

"You  saw  him  twice,  then?" 

"Yes,  twice."  She  just  breathed  it  at  him.  "He 
came  first  on  the  20th  of  October.  I  remember  the 
date  because  it  was  the  day  we  went  up  Meldon  Steep 
for  the  first  time.''  She  felt  a  faint  gasp  of  inward 
laughter  at  the  thought  that  but  for  that  she  might  have 
forgotten. 

Parvis  continued  to  scrutinise  her,  as  if  trying  to 
intercept  her  gaze. 

"We  saw  him  from  the  roof,"  she  went  on.  "He  came 
down  the  lime-avenue  toward  the  house.  He  was  dressed 
just  as  he  is  in  that  picture.  My  husband  saw  him  first. 
He  was  frightened,  and  ran  down  ahead  of  me;  but 
there  was  no  one  there.  He  had  vanished." 

"Elwell  had  vanished?"  Parvis  faltered. 

"Yes."  Their  two  whispers  seemed  to  grope  for  each 
other.  "I  couldn't  think  what  had  happened.  I  see  now. 
He  tried  to  come  then;  but  he  wasn't  dead  enough — 
he  couldn't  reach  us.  He  had  to  wait  for  two  months 


AFTERWARD 

to  die;  and  then  he  came  back  again — and  Ned  went 
with  him." 

She  nodded  at  Parvis  with  the  look  of  triumph  of  a 
child  who  has  worked  out  a  difficult  puzzle.  But  sud- 
denly she  lifted  her  hands  with  a  desperate  gesture, 
pressing  them  to  her  temples. 

"Oh,  my  God!  I  sent  him  to  Ned — I  told  him  where 
to  go!  I  sent  him  to  this  room!"  she  screamed. 

She  felt  the  walls  of  books  rush  toward  her,  like 
inward  falling  ruins;  and  she  heard  Parvis,  a  long  way 
off,  through  the  ruins,  crying  to  her,  and  struggling 
to  get  at  her.  But  she  was  numb  to  his  touch,  she  did 
not  know  what  he  was  saying.  Through  the  tumult 
she  heard  but  one  clear  note,  the  voice  of  Alida  Stair, 
speaking  on  the  lawn  at  Pangbourne. 

"You  won't  know  till  afterward,"  it  said.  "You 
won't  know  till  long,  long  afterward." 


[373  ] 


THE   LETTERS 


THE  LETTERS 


UP  the  hill  from  the  station  at  St.-Cloud,  Lizzie 
West  climbed  in  the  cold  spring  sunshine.  As 
she  breasted  the  incline,  she  noticed  the  first  waves 
of  wistaria  over  courtyard  railings  and  the  high  lights 
of  new  foliage  against  the  walls  of  ivy-matted  gardens; 
and  she  thought  again,  as  she  had  thought  a  hundred 
times  before,  that  she  had  never  seen  so  beautiful  a 
spring. 

She  was  on  her  way  to  the  Deerings'  house,  in  a  street 
near  the  hilltop;  and  every  step  was  dear  and  familiar 
to  her.  She  went  there  five  times  a  week  to  teach  little 
Juliet  Deering,  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Vincent  Deering, 
the  distinguished  American  artist.  Juliet  had  been  her 
pupil  for  two  years,  and  day  after  day,  during  that 
time,  Lizzie  West  had  mounted  the  hill  in  all  weathers; 
sometimes  with  her  umbrella  bent  against  the  rain, 
sometimes  with  her  frail  cotton  parasol  unfurled  be- 
neath a  fiery  sun,  sometimes  with  the  snow  soaking 
through  her  boots  or  a  bitter  wind  piercing  her  thin 
jacket,  sometimes  with  the  dust  whirling  about  her  and 
[  377  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

bleaching  the  flowers  of  the  poor  little  hat  that  had  to 
"  carry  her  through"  till  next  summer. 

At  first  the  ascent  had  seemed  tedious  enough,  as 
dull  as  the  trudge  to  her  other  lessons.  Lizzie  was  not  a 
heaven-sent  teacher;  she  had  no  born  zeal  for  her  call- 
ing, and  though  she  dealt  kindly  and  dutifully  with  her 
pupils,  she  did  not  fly  to  them  on  winged  feet.  But  one 
day  something  had  happened  to  change  the  face  of 
life,  and  since  then  the  climb  to  the  Deering  house 
had  seemed  like  a  dream- flight  up  a  heavenly  stair- 
way. v 

Her  heart  beat  faster  as  she  remembered  it — no 
longer  in  a  tumult  of  fright  and  self-reproach,  but 
softly,  happily,  as  if  brooding  over  a  possession  that 
none  could  take  from  her. 

It  was  on  a  day  of  the  previous  October  that  she  had 
stopped,  after  Juliet's  lesson,  to  ask  if  she  might  speak 
to  Juliet's  papa.  One  had  always  to  apply  to  Mr. 
Deering  if  there  was  anything  to  be  said  about  the 
lessons.  Mrs.  Deering  lay  on  her  lounge  up-stairs, 
reading  relays  of  dog-eared  novels,  the  choice  of  which 
she  left  to  the  cook  and  the  nurse,  who  were  always 
fetching  them  for  her  from  the  cabinet  de  lecture;  and 
it  was  understood  in  the  house  that  she  was  not  to  be 
"bothered"  about  Juliet.  Mr.  Deering's  interest  in  his 
daughter  was  fitful  rather  than  consecutive;  but  at 
least  he  was  approachable,  and  listened  sympatheti- 
[  378  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

cally,  if  a  little  absently,  stroking  his  long  fair  mous- 
tache, while  "Lizzie  stated  her  difficulty  or  put  in  her 
plea  for  maps  or  copy-books. 

"Yes,  yes — of  course — whatever  you  think  right,"  he 
would  always  assent,  sometimes  drawing  a  five-franc 
piece  from  his  pocket,  and  laying  it  carelessly  on  the 
table,  or  oftener  saying,  with  his  charming  smile: 
"Get  what  you  please,  and  just  put  it  on  your  account, 
you  know." 

But  this  time  Lizzie  had  not  come  to  ask  for  maps 
or  copy-books,  or  even  to  hint,  in  crimson  misery — as 
once,  poor  soul!  she  had  had  to  do — that  Mr.  Deering 
had  overlooked  her  last  little  account — had  probably 
not  noticed  that  she  had  left  it,  some  two  months 
earlier,  on  a  corner  of  his  littered  writing-table.  That 
hour  had  been  bad  enough,  though  he  had  done  his 
best  to  carry  it  off  gallantly  and  gaily;  but  this  was  in- 
finitely worse.  For  she  had  come  to  complain  of  her 
pupil;  to  say  that,  much  as  she  loved  little  Juliet,  it  was 
useless,  unless  Mr.  Deering  could  "do  something,"  to 
go  on  with  the  lessons. 

"It  wouldn't  be  honest — I  should  be  robbing  you; 
I'm  not  sure  that  I  haven't  already,"  she  half  laughed, 
through  mounting  tears,  as  she  put  her  case.  Little 
Juliet  would  not  work,  would  not  obey.  Her  poor 
little  drifting  existence  floated  aimlessly  between  the 
kitchen  and  the  lingerie,  and  all  the  groping  tendrils 
[  379  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

of  her  curiosity  were  fastened   about  the  life  of  the 
backstairs. 

It  was  the  same  kind  of  curiosity  that  Mrs.  Deering, 
overhead  in  her  drug-scented  room,  lavished  on  her 
dog-eared  novels  and  on  the  "society  notes"  of  the 
morning  paper;  but  since  Juliet's  horizon  was  not  yet 
wide  enough  to  embrace  these  loftier  objects,  her  inter- 
est was  centred  in  the  anecdotes  that  Celeste  and  Su- 
zanne brought  back  from  the  market  and  the  library. 
That  these  were  not  always  of  an  edifying  nature  the 
child's  artless  prattle  too  often  betrayed;  but  unhap- 
pily they  occupied  her  fancy  to  the  complete  exclusion 
of  such  nourishing  items  as  dates  and  dynasties,  and 
the  sources  of  the  principal  European  rivers. 

At  length  the  crisis  became  so  acute  that  poor  Lizzie 
felt  herself  bound  to  resign  her  charge  or  ask  Mr. 
Deering's  intervention;  and  for  Juliet's  sake  she  chose 
the  harder  alternative.  It  was  hard  to  speak  to  him  not 
only  because  one  hated  to  confess  one's  failure,  and 
hated  still  more  to  ascribe  it  to  such  vulgar  causes,  but 
because  one  blushed  to  bring  them  to  the  notice  of  a 
spirit  engaged  with  higher  things.  Mr.  Deering  was 
very  busy  at  that  moment:  he  had  a  new  picture  "on." 
And  Lizzie  entered  the  studio  with  the  flutter  of  one 
profanely  intruding  on  some  sacred  rite;  she  almost 
heard  the  rustle  of  retreating  wings  as  she  ap- 
proached. 

[  380  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

And  then — and  then — how  differently  it  had  all 
turned  out!  Perhaps  it  wouldn't  have,  if  she  hadn't 
been  such  a  goose — she  who  so  seldom  cried,  so  prided 
herself  on  a  stoic  control  of  her  little  twittering  cageful 
of  "feelings."  But  if  she  had  cried,  it  was  because  he 
had  looked  at  her  so  kindly,  and  because  she  had  never- 
theless felt  him  so  pained  and  shamed  by  what  she 
said.  The  pain,  of  course,  lay  for  both  in  the  implica- 
tion behind  her  words — in  the  one  word  she  left  un- 
spoken. If  little  Juliet  was  as  she  was,  it  was  because 
of  the  mother  up-stairs — the  mother  who  had  given 
the  child  her  frivolous  impulses,  and  grudged  her  the 
care  that  might  have  corrected  them.  The  case  so 
obviously  revolved  in  its  own  vicious  circle  that  when 
Mr.  Deering  had  murmured,  "Of  course  if  my  wife 
were  not  an  invalid,"  they  both  turned  with  a  spring 
tp  the  flagrant  "bad  example"  of  Celeste  and  Suzanne, 
fastening  on  that  with  a  mutual  insistence  that  ended 
in  his  crying  out:  "All  the  more,  then,  how  can  you 
leave  her  to  them  ? " 

"But  if  I  do  her  no  good?"  Lizzie  wailed;  and  it 
was  then  that,  when  he  took  her  hand  and  assured 
her  gently,  "But  you  do,  you  do!" — it  was  then  that, 
in  the  traditional  phrase,  she  "broke  down,"  and  her 
poor  little  protest  quivered  off  into  tears. 

"You  do  me  good,  at  any  rate — you  make  the  house 
seem  less  like  a  desert,"  she  heard  him  say;  and  the 
[  381  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

next  moment  she  felt  herself  drawn  to  him,  and  they 
kissed  each  other  through  her  weeping. 

They  kissed  each  other — there  was  the  new  fact. 
One  does  not,  if  one  is  a  poor  little  teacher  living  in 
Mme.  Clopin's  Pension  Suisse  at  Passy,  and  if  one  has 
pretty  brown  hair  and  eyes  that  reach  out  trustfully 
to  other  eyes — one  does  not,  under  these  common  but 
defenceless  conditions,  arrive  at  the  age  of  twenty-five 
without  being  now  and  then  kissed — waylaid  once  by 
a  noisy  student  between  two  doors,  surprised  once  by 
one's  grey-bearded  professor  as  one  bent  over  the 
"theme"  he  was  correcting — but  these  episodes,  if 
they  tarnish  the  surface,  do  not  reach  the  heart:  it  is 
not  the  kiss  endured,  but  the  kiss  returned,  that  lives. 
And  Lizzie  West's  first  kiss  was  for  Vincent  Deering. 

As  she  drew  back  from  it,  something  new  awoke  in 
her — something  deeper  than  the  fright  and  the  shame., 
and  the  penitent  thought  of  Mrs.  Deering.  A  sleeping 
germ  of  life  thrilled  and  unfolded,  and  started  out  to 
seek  the  sun. 

She  might  have  felt  differently,  perhaps — the  shame 
and  penitence  might  have  prevailed — had  she  not 
known  him  so  kind  and  tender,  and  guessed  him  so 
baffled,  poor  and  disappointed.  She  knew  the  failure 
of  his  married  life,  and  she  divined  a  corresponding 
failure  in  his  artistic  career.  Lizzie,  who  had  made  her 
own  faltering  snatch  at  the  same  laurels,  brought  her 
[  382  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

thwarted  proficiency  to  bear  on  the  question  of  his 
pictures,  which  she  judged  to  be  remarkable,  but 
suspected  of  having  somehow  failed  to  affirm  their 
merit  publicly.  She  understood  that  he  had  tasted  an 
earlier  moment  of  success:  a  mention,  a  medal,  some- 
thing official  and  tangible;  then  the  tide  of  publicity 
had  somehow  set  the  other  way,  and  left  him  stranded 
in  a  noble  isolation.  It  was  incredible  that  any  one 
so  naturally  eminent  and  exceptional  should  have  been 
subject  to  the  same  vulgar  necessities  that  governed  her 
own  life,  should  have  known  poverty  and  obscurity  and 
indifference.  But  she  gathered  that  this  had  been  the 
case,  and  felt  that  it  formed  the  miraculous  link 
between  them.  For  through  what  medium  less  reveal- 
ing than  that  of  shared  misfortune  would  he  ever  have 
perceived  so  inconspicuous  an  object  as  herself?  And 
she  recalled  now  how  gently  his  eyes  had  rested  on  her 
from  the  first — the  grey  eyes  that  might  have  seemed 
mocking  if  they  had  not  seemed  so  gentle. 

She  remembered  how  kindly  he  had  met  her  the  first 
day,  when  Mrs.  Deering's  inevitable  headache  had  pre- 
vented her  receiving  the  new  teacher.  Insensibly  he 
had  led  Lizzie  to  talk  of  herself  and  his  questions  had 
at  once  revealed  his  interest  in  the  little  stranded  com- 
patriot doomed  to  earn  a  precarious  living  so  far  from 
her  native  shore.  Sweet  as  the  moment  of  unburden- 
ing had  been,  she  wondered  afterward  what  had  de- 
[  383  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

termined  it:  how  she,  so  shy  and  sequestered,  had 
found  herself  letting  slip  her  whole  poverty-stricken 
story,  even  to  the  avowal  of  the  ineffectual  "artistic" 
tendencies  that  had  drawn  her  to  Paris,  and  had  then 
left  her  there  to  the  dry  task  of  tuition.  She  wondered 
at  first,  but  she  understood  now;  she  understood  every- 
thing after  he  had  kissed  her.  It  was  simply  because  he 
was  as  kind  as  he  was  great. 

She  thought  of  this  now  as  she  mounted  the  hill  in 
the  spring  sunshine,  and  she  thought  of  all  that  had 
happened  since.  The  intervening  months,  as  she  looked 
back  at  them,  were  merged  in  a  vast  golden  haze, 
through  which  here  and  there  rose  the  outline  of  a 
shining  island.  The  haze  was  the  general  enveloping 
sense  of  his  love,  and  the  shining  islands  were  the  days 
they  had  spent  together.  They  had  never  kissed  again 
under  his  own  roof.  Lizzie's  professional  honour  had 
a  keen  edge,  but  she  had  been  spared  the  necessity  of 
making  him  feel  it.  It  was  of  the  essence  of  her  fatality 
that  he  always  "  understood  "  when  his  failing  to  do  so 
raight  have  imperilled  his  hold  on  her. 

But  her  Thursdays  and  Sundays  were  free,  and  it 
soon  became  a  habit  to  give  them  to  him.  She  knew, 
for  her  peace  of  mind,  only  too  much  about  pictures, 
and  galleries  and  churches  had  been  the  one  outlet 
from  the  greyness  of  her  personal  conditions.  For 
poetry,  too,  and  the  other  imaginative  forms  of  litera- 
[  384  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

ture,  she  had  always  felt  more  than  she  had  hitherto 
had  occasion  to  betray;  and  now  all  these  folded  sympa- 
thies shot  out  their  tendrils  to  the  light.  Mr.  Deering 
knew  how  to  express  with  unmatched  clearness  the 
thoughts  that  trembled  in  her  mind:  to  talk  with  him 
was  to  soar  up  into  the  azure  on  the  outspread  wings 
of  his  intelligence,  and  look  down,  dizzily  yet  clearly, 
on  all  the  wonders  and  glories  of  the  world.  She  was 
a  little  ashamed,  sometimes,  to  find  how  few  definite 
impressions  she  brought  back  from  these  flights;  but 
that  was  doubtless  because  her  heart  beat  so  fast 
when  he  was  near,  and  his  smile  made  his  words  seem 
like  a  long  quiver  of  light.  Afterward,  in  quieter  hours, 
fragments  of  their  talk  emerged  in  her  memory  with 
wondrous  precision,  every  syllable  as  minutely  chiselled 
as  some  of  the  delicate  objects  in  crystal  or  ivory  that 
he  pointed  out  in  the  museums  they  frequented.  It  was 
always  a  puzzle  to  Lizzie  that  some  of  their  hours 
should  be  so  blurred  and  others  so  vivid. 

She  was  reliving  all  these  memories  with  unusual 
distinctness,  because  it  was  a  fortnight  since  she  had 
seen  her  friend.  Mrs.  Deering,  some  six  weeks  previ- 
ously, had  gone  to  visit  a  relative  at  St.-Raphael;  and, 
after  she  had  been  a  month  absent,  her  husband  and 
the  little  girl  had  joined  her.  Lizzie's  adieux  to  Deer- 
ing had  been  made  on  a  rainy  afternoon  in  the  damp 
corridors  of  the  Aquarium  at  the  Trocadero.  She  could 
[  385  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

not  receive  him  at  her  own  pension.  That  a  teacher 
should  be  visited  by  the  father  of  a  pupil,  especially 
when  that  father  was  still,  as  Madame  Clopin  said, 
si  bien,  was  against  that  lady's  austere  Helvetian  code. 
And  from  Deering's  first  tentative  hint  of  another  solu- 
tion Lizzie  had  recoiled  in  a  wild  flurry  of  all  her 
scruples.  He  took  her  "No,  no,  no!"  as  he  took  all 
her  twists  and  turns  of  conscience,  with  eyes  half- 
tender  and  half-mocking,  and  an  instant  acquiescence 
which  was  the  finest  homage  to  the  "lady"  she  felt 
he  divined  and  honoured  in  her. 

So  they  continued  to  meet  in  museums  and  galleries, 
or  to  extend,  on  fine  days,  their  explorations  to  the 
suburbs,  where  now  and  then,  in  the  solitude  of  grove 
or  garden,  the  kiss  renewed  itself,  fleeting,  isolated,  or 
prolonged  in  a  shy  pressure  of  the  hand.  But  on  the 
day  of  his  leave-taking  the  rain  kept  them  under  cover; 
and  as  they  threaded  the  subterranean  windings  of  the 
Aquarium,  and  Lizzie  gazed  unseeingly  at  the  grotesque 
faces  glaring  at  her  through  walls  of  glass,  she  felt  like 
a  drowned  wretch  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  with  all  her 
sunlit  memories  rolling  over  her  like  the  waves  of  its 
surface. 

"You'll  never  see  him  again — never  see  him  again," 

the  waves  boomed  in  her  ears  through  his  last  words; 

and  when  she  had  said  good-bye  to  him  at  the  corner, 

and  had  scrambled,  wet  and  shivering,  into  the  Passy 

[  386  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

omnibus,  its  grinding  wheels  took  up  the  derisive  bur- 
den— "Never  see  him,  never  see  him  again." 

All  that  was  only  two  weeks  ago,  and  here  she  was, 
as  happy  as  a  lark,  mounting  the  hill  to  his  door  in  the 
fresh  spring  sunshine!  So  weak  a  heart  did  not  deserve 
such  a  radiant  fate;  and  Lizzie  said  to  herself  that  she 
would  never  again  distrust  her  star. 


II 

THE  cracked  bell  tinkled  sweetly  through  her  heart  as 
she  stood  listening  for  Juliet's  feet.  Juliet,  anticipating 
the  laggard  Suzanne,  almost  always  opened  the  door  for 
her  governess,  not  from  any  eagerness  to  hasten  the 
hour  of  her  studies,  but  from  the  irrepressible  desire 
to  see  what  was  going  on  in  the  street.  But  doubtless 
on  this  occasion  some  unusually  absorbing  incident  had 
detained  the  child  below-stairs ;  for  Lizzie,  after  vainly 
waiting  for  a  step,  had  to  give  the  bell  a  second  twitch. 
Even  a  third  produced  no  response,  and  Lizzie,  full 
of  dawning  fears,  drew  back  to  look  up  at  the  house. 
She  saw  that  the  studio  shutters  stood  wide,  and  then 
noticed,  without  surprise,  that  Mrs.  Deering's  were 
still  unopened.  No  doubt  Mrs.  Deering  was  resting 
after  the  fatigue  of  the  journey.  Instinctively  Lizzie's 
eyes  turned  again  to  the  studio  window;  and  as  she 
looked,  she  saw  Deering  approach  it.  He  caught  sight 
[  387  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

of  her,  and  an  instant  later  was  at  the  door.  He  looked 
paler  than  usual,  and  she  noticed  that  he  wore  a  black 
coat. 

"I  rang  and  rang — where  is  Juliet?"  she  asked. 

He  looked  at  her  gravely;  then,  without  answering, 
he  led  her  down  the  passage  to  the  studio,  and  closed 
the  door  when  she  had  entered. 

"My  wife  is  dead — she  died  suddenly  ten  days  ago. 
Didn't  you  see  it  in  the  papers?"  he  said. 

Lizzie,  with  a  cry,  sank  down  on  the  rickety  divan 
propped  against  the  wall.  She  seldom  saw  a  news- 
paper, since  she  could  not  afford  one  for  her  own  pe- 
rusal, and  those  supplied  to  the  Pension  Clopin  were 
usually  in  the  hands  of  its  more  privileged  lodgers  till 
long  after  the  hour  when  she  set  out  on  her  morning 
round. 

"No;   I  didn't  see  it,"  she  stammered. 

Deering  was  silent.  He  stood  twisting  an  unlit  cigar- 
ette in  his  hand,  and  looking  down  at  her  with  a  gaze 
that  was  both  constrained  and  hesitating. 

She,  too,  felt  the  constraint  of  the  situation,  the  im- 
possibility of  finding  words  which,  after  what  had  passed 
between  them,  should  seem  neither  false  nor  heartless; 
and  at  last  she  exclaimed,  standing  up:  "Poor  little 
Juliet!  Can't  I  go  to  her?" 

"Juliet  is  not  here.  I  left  her  at  St.-Raphael  with 
the  relations  with  whom  my  wife  was  staying." 
[  388  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

"Oh,"  Lizzie  murmured,  feeling  vaguely  that  this 
added  to  the  difficulty  of  the  moment.  How  differently 
she  had  pictured  their  meeting! 

"I'm  so — so  sorry  for  her!"  she  faltered. 

Deering  made  no  reply,  but,  turning  on  his  heel, 
walked  the  length  of  the  studio  and  halted  before  the 
picture  on  the  easel.  It  was  the  landscape  he  had 
begun  the  previous  autumn,  with  the  intention  of  send- 
ing it  to  the  Salon  that  spring.  But  it  was  still  unfin- 
ished— seemed,  indeed,  hardly  more  advanced  than 
on  the  fateful  October  day  when  Lizzie,  standing 
before  it  for  the  first  time,  had  confessed  her  inability 
to  deal  with  Juliet.  Perhaps  the  same  thought  struck 
its  creator,  for  he  broke  into  a  dry  laugh  and  turned 
from  the  easel  with  a  shrug. 

Under  his  protracted  silence  Lizzie  roused  herself 
to  the  fact  that,  since  her  pupil  was  absent,  there  was 
no  reason  for  her  remaining  any  longer;  and  as  Deer- 
ing  approached  her  she  rose  and  said  with  an  effort: 
"I'll  go,  then.  You'll  send  for  me  when  she  comes 
back?" 

Deering  still  hesitated,  tormenting  the  cigarette  be- 
tween his  fingers. 

"She's  not  coming  back — not  at  present." 

Lizzie  heard  him  with  a  drop  of  the  heart.  Was 
everything  to  be  changed  in  their  lives?  Of  course; 
how  could  she  have  dreamed  it  would  be  otherwise? 
[  389  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

She  could  only  stupidly  repeat:  "Not  coming  back? 
Not  this  spring?" 

"Probably  not,  since  our  friends  are  so  good  as  to 
keep  her.  The  fact  is,  I've  got  to  go  to  America.  My 
wife  left  a  little  property,  a  few  pennies,  that  I  must 
go  and  see  to — for  the  child." 

Lizzie  stood  before  him,  a  cold  knife  in  her 
breast.  "I  see — I  see,"  she  reiterated,  feeling  all  the 
while  that  she  strained  her  eyes  into  utter  black- 
ness. 

"It's  a  nuisance,  having  to  pull  up  stakes,"  he  went 
on,  with  a  fretful  glance  about  the  studio. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face.  "Shall  you  be  gone 
long  ? "  she  took  courage  to  ask. 

"There  again — I  can't  tell.  It's  all  so  mixed  up." 
He  met  her  look  for  an  incredibly  long  strange  moment. 
"I  hate  to  go!"  he  murmured  abruptly. 

Lizzie  felt  a  rush  of  moisture  to  her  lashes,  and  the 
familiar  wave  of  weakness  at  her  heart.  She  raised  her 
hand  to  her  face  with  an  instinctive  gesture,  and  as 
she  did  so  he  held  out  his  arms. 

"Come  here,  Lizzie!"  he  said. 

And  she  went — went  with  a  sweet  wild  throb  of 
liberation,  with  the  sense  that  at  last  the  house  was  his, 
that  she  was  his,  if  he  wanted  her;  that  never  again 
would  that  silent  presence  in  the  room  above  constrain 
and  shame  her  rapture. 

[  390  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

He  pushed  back  her  veil  and  covered  her  face  with 
kisses.  "Don't  cry,  you  little  goose!"  he  said. 


Ill 

THAT  they  must  see  each  other  before  his  departure, 
in  some  place  less  exposed  than  their  usual  haunts,  was 
as  clear  to  Lizzie  as  it  appeared  to  be  to  Deering.  His 
expressing  the  wish  seemed,  indeed,  the  sweetest  testi- 
mony to  the  quality  of  his  feeling,  since,  in  the  first 
weeks  of  the  most  perfunctory  widowerhood,  a  man  of 
his  stamp  is  presumed  to  abstain  from  light  adventures. 
If,  then,  he  wished  so  much  to  be  quietly  and  gravely 
with  her,  it  could  be  only  for  reasons  she  did  not  call  by 
name,  but  of  which  she  felt  the  sacred  tremor  in  her 
heart;  and  it  would  have  seemed  to  her  vain  and  vulgar 
to  put  forward,  at  such  a  moment,  the  conventional 
objections  with  which  such  little  exposed  existences 
defend  the  treasure  of  their  freshness. 

In  such  a  mood  as  this  one  may  descend  from  the 
Passy  omnibus  at  the  corner  of  the  Pont  de  la  Con- 
corde (she  had  not  let  him  fetch  her  in  a  cab)  with  a 
sense  of  dedication  almost  solemn,  and  may  advance 
to  meet  one's  fate,  in  the  shape  of  a  gentleman  of 
melancholy  elegance,  with  an  auto-taxi  at  his  call,  as 
one  has  advanced  to  the  altar-steps  in  some  girlish 
bridal  vision. 

[  391  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

Even  the  experienced  waiter  ushering  them  into  an 
upper  room  of  the  quiet  restaurant  on  the  Seine  could 
hardly  have  supposed  their  quest  for  privacy  to  be 
based  on  the  familiar  motive,  so  soberly  did  Deering 
give  his  orders,  while  his  companion  sat  small  and 
grave  at  his  side.  She  did  not,  indeed,  mean  to  let  her 
distress  obscure  their  hour  together:  she  was  already 
learning  that  Deering  shrank  from  sadness.  He  should 
see  that  she  had  courage  and  gaiety  to  face  their  com- 
ing separation,  and  yet  give  herself  meanwhile  to  this 
completer  nearness;  but  she  waited,  as  always,  for  him 
to  strike  the  opening  note. 

Looking  back  at  it  later,  she  wondered  at  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  hour.  Her  heart  was  unversed  in  happiness, 
but  he  had  found  the  tone  to  lull  her  fears,  and  make 
her  trust  her  fate  for  any  golden  wonder.  Deepest  of 
all,  he  gave  her  the  sense  of  something  tacit  and  estab- 
lished between  them,  as  if  his  tenderness  were  a  habit 
of  the  heart  hardly  needing  the  support  of  outward 
proof. 

Such  proof  as  he  offered  came,  therefore,  as  a  kind 
of  crowning  luxury,  the  flowering  of  a  profoundly  rooted 
sentiment;  and  here  again  the  instinctive  reserves  and 
defences  would  have  seemed  to  vulgarise  what  his  con- 
fidence ennobled.  But  if  all  the  tender  casuistries  of  her 
heart  were  at  his  service,  he  took  no  grave  advantage  of 
them.  Even  when  they  sat  alone  after  dinner,  with  the 
[  392  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

lights  of  the  river  trembling  through  their  one  low 
window,  and  the  rumour  of  Paris  enclosing  them  in  a 
heart  of  silence,  he  seemed,  as  much  as  herself,  under 
the  spell  of  hallowing  influences.  She  felt  it  most  of  all 
as  she  yielded  to  the  arm  he  presently  put  about  her, 
to  the  long  caress  he  laid  on  her  lips  and  eyes:  not  a 
word  or  gesture  missed  the  note  of  quiet  understanding, 
or  cast  a  doubt,  in  retrospect,  on  the  pact  they  sealed 
with  their  last  look. 

That  pact,  as  she  reviewed  it  through  a  sleepless 
night,  seemed  to  have  consisted  mainly,  on  his  part, 
in  pleadings  for  full  and  frequent  news  of  her,  on  hers 
in  the  promise  that  it  should  be  given  as  often  as  he 
wrote  to  ask  it.  She  did  not  wish  to  show  too  much 
eagerness,  too  great  a  desire  to  affirm  and  define  her 
hold  on  him.  Her  life  had  given  her  a  certain  acquaint- 
ance with  the  arts  of  defence:  girls  in  her  situation 
were  supposed  to  know  them  all,  and  to  use  them  as 
occasion  called.  But  Lizzie's  very  need  of  them  had 
intensified  her  disdain.  Just  because  she  was  so  poor, 
and  had  always,  materially,  so  to  count  her  change  and 
calculate  her  margin,  she  would  at  least  know  the  joy 
of  emotional  prodigality,  and  give  her  heart  as  reck- 
lessly as  the  rich  their  millions.  She  was  sure  now  that 
Deering  loved  her,  and  if  he  had  seized  the  occasion 
of  their  farewell  to  give  her  some  definitely  worded  sign 
of  his  feeling — if,  more  plainly,  he  had  asked  her  to 
[  393  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

marry  him — his  doing  so  would  have  seemed  less  a 
proof  of  his  sincerity  than  of  his  suspecting  in  her  the 
need  of  such  a  warrant.  That  he  had  abstained  seemed 
to  show  that  he  trusted  her  as  she  trusted  him,  and  that 
they  were  one  most  of  all  in  this  complete  security  of 
understanding. 

She  had  tried  to  make  him  guess  all  this  in  the 
chariness  of  her  promise  to  write.  She  would  write; 
of  course  she  would.  But  he  would  be  busy,  preoccu- 
pied, on  the  move:  it  was  for  him  to  let  her  know  when 
he  wished  a  word,  to  spare  her  the  embarrassment  of 
ill-timed  intrusions. 

"Intrusions?"  He  had  smiled  the  word  away.  "You 
can't  well  intrude,  my  darling,  on  a  heart  where  you're 
already  established  to  the  complete  exclusion  of  other 
lodgers."  And  then,  taking  her  hands,  and  looking  up 
from  them  into  her  happy  dizzy  eyes:  "You  don't 
know  much  about  being  in  love,  do  you,  Lizzie?"  he 
laughingly  ended. 

It  seemed  easy  enough  to  reject  this  imputation  in  a 
kiss;  but  she  wondered  afterward  if  she  had  not  de- 
served it.  Was  she  really  cold  and  conventional,  and 
did  other  women  give  more  richly  and  recklessly  ?  She 
found  that  it  was  possible  to  turn  about  every  one  of 
her  reserves  and  delicacies  so  that  they  looked  like  sel- 
fish scruples  and  petty  pruderies,  and  at  this  game  she 
came  in  time  to  exhaust  all  the  resources  of  casuistry. 
[  394  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

Meanwhile  the  first  days  after  Deering's  departure 
wore  a  soft  refracted  light  like  the  radiance  lingering 
after  sunset.  He,  at  any  rate,  was  taxable  with  no 
reserves,  no  calculations,  and  his  letters  of  farewell, 
from  train  and  steamer,  filled  her  with  long  murmurs 
and  echoes  of  his  presence.  How  he  loved  her,  how  he 
loved  her — and  how  he  knew  how  to  tell  her  so! 

She  was  not  sure  of  possessing  the  same  gift. 
Unused  to  the  expression  of  personal  emotion,  she 
wavered  between  the  impulse  to  pour  out  all  she  felt 
and  the  fear  lest  her  extravagance  should  amuse  or 
even  bore  him.  She  never  lost  the  sense  that  what  was 
to  her  the  central  crisis  of  experience  must  be  a  mere 
episode  in  a  life  so  predestined  as  his  to  romantic  inci- 
dents. Alt  that  she  felt  and  said  would  be  subjected  to 
the  test  of  comparison  with  what  others  had  already 
given  him:  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe  she  saw  pas- 
sionate missives  winging  their  way  toward  Deering,  for 
whom  her  poor  little  swallow-flight  of  devotion  could 
certainly  not  make  a  summer.  But  such  moments  were 
succeeded  by  others  in  which  she  raised  her  head  and 
dared  affirm  her  conviction  that  no  woman  had  ever 
loved  him  just  as  she  had,  and  that  none,  therefore, 
had  probably  found  just  such  things  to  say  to  him. 
And  this  conviction  strengthened  the  other  less  solidly 
based  belief  that  he  also,  for  the  same  reason,  had 
found  new  accents  to  express  his  tenderness,  and  that 
[  395  ] 


THE  LETTERS 

the  three  letters  she  wore  all  day  in  her  shabby  blouse, 
and  hid  all  night  beneath  her  pillow,  not  only  surpassed 
in  beauty,  but  differed  in  quality  from,  all  he  had  ever 
penned  for  other  eyes. 

They  gave  her,  at  any  rate,  during  the  weeks  that  she 
wore  them  on  her  heart,  sensations  more  complex  and 
delicate  than  Deering's  actual  presence  had  ever  pro- 
duced. To  be  with  him  was  always  like  breasting  a 
bright  rough  sea  that  blinded  while  it  buoyed  her;  but 
his  letters  formed  a  still  pool  of  contemplation,  above 
which  she  could  bend,  and  see  the  reflection  of  the  sky, 
and  the  myriad  movements  of  the  life  that  flitted  and 
gleamed  below  the  surface.  The  wealth  of  this  hidden 
life — that  was  what  most  surprised  her!  She  had  had 
no  inkling  of  it,  but  had  kept  on  along  the  narrow 
track  of  habit,  like  a  traveller  climbing  a  road  in  a  fog, 
and  suddenly  finding  himself  on  a  sunlit  crag  between 
leagues  of  sky  and  dizzy  depths  of  valley.  And  the 
odd  thing  was  that  all  the  people  about  her — the  whole 
world  of  the  Passy  pension — seemed  plodding  along 
the  same  dull  path,  preoccupied  with  the  pebbles  un- 
der foot,  and  unaware  of  the  glory  beyond  the  fog! 

There  were  hours  of  exultation,  when  she  longed  to 
cry  out  to  them  what  one  saw  from  the  summit — and 
hours  of  abasement,  when  she  asked  herself  why  her 
feet  had  been  guided  there,  while  others,  no  doubt  as 
worthy,  stumbled  and  blundered  in  obscurity.  She  felt, 
[  396  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

in  particular,  an  urgent  pity  for  the  two  or  three  other 
girls  at  Mme.  Clopin's — girls  older,  duller,  less  alive 
than  she,  and  by  that  very  token  more  thrown  upon 
her  sympathy.  Would  they  ever  know  ?  Had  they  ever 
known  ? — those  were  the  questions  that  haunted  her  as 
she  crossed  her  companions  on  the  stairs,  faced  them 
at  the  dinner-table,  and  listened  to  their  poor  pining 
talk  in  the  dimly-lit  slippery-seated  salon.  One  of  the 
girls  Avas  Swiss,  another  English;  a  third,  Andora 
Macy,  was  a  young  lady  from  the  Southern  States  who 
was  studying  French  with  the  ultimate  object  of  im- 
parting it  to  the  inmates  of  a  girls'  school  at  Macon, 
Georgia. 

Andora  Macy  was  pale,  faded,  immature.  She  had  a 
drooping  accent,  and  a  manner  which  fluctuated  be- 
tween arch  audacity  and  fits  of  panicky  hauteur.  She 
yearned  to  be  admired,  and  feared  to  be  insulted;  and 
yet  seemed  wistfully  conscious  that  she  was  destined  to 
miss  both  these  extremes  of  sensation,  or  to  enjoy  them 
only  in  the  experiences  of  her  more  privileged  friends. 

It  was  perhaps  for  this  reason  that  she  took  a  tender 
interest  in  Lizzie,  who  had  shrunk  from  her  at  first, 
as  the  depressing  image  of  her  own  probable  future, 
but  to  whom  she  now  suddenly  became  an  object  of 
sentimental  pity. 


[  397  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

IV 

Miss  MACY'S  room  was  next  to  Miss  West's,  and  the 
Southerner's  knock  often  appealed  to  Lizzie's  hospi- 
tality when  Mme.  Clopin's  early  curfew  had  driven 
her  boarders  from  the  salon.  It  sounded  thus  one 
evening,  just  as  Lizzie,  tired  from  an  unusually  long 
day  of  tuition,  was  in  the  act  of  removing  her  dress. 
She  was  in  too  indulgent  a  mood  to  withhold  her  "  Come 
in,"  and  as  Miss  Macy  crossed  the  threshold,  Lizzie 
felt  that  Vincent  Deering's  first  letter — the  letter  from 
the  train — had  slipped  from  her  bosom  to  the  floor. 

Miss  Macy,  as  promptly  aware,  darted  forward  to 
recover  it.  Lizzie  stooped  also,  instinctively  jealous  of 
her  touch;  but  the  visitor  reached  the  letter  first,  and 
as  she  seized  it,  Lizzie  knew  that  she  had  seen  whence 
it  fell,  and  was  weaving  round  the  incident  a  rapid  web 
of  romance. 

Lizzie  blushed  with  annoyance.  "It's  too  stupid, 
having  no  pockets!  If  one  gets  a  letter  as  one  is  going 
out  in  the  morning,  one  has  to  carry  it  in  one's  blouse 
all  day." 

Miss  Macy  looked  at  her  fondly.  "It's  warm  from 
your  heart!"  she  breathed,  reluctantly  yielding  up  the 
missive. 

Lizzie  laughed,  for  she  knew  it  was  the  letter  that 
had  warmed  her  heart.  Poor  Andora  Macy!  She  would 
[  398  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

never  know.  Her  bleak  bosom  would  never  take  fire 
from  such  a  contact.  Lizzie  looked  at  her  with  kind 
eyes,  chafing  at  the  injustice  of  fate. 

The  next  evening,  on  her  return  home,  she  found 
her  friend  hovering  in  the  entrance  hall. 

"I  thought  you'd  like  me  to  put  this  in  your  own 
hand,"  Andora  whispered  significantly,  pressing  a  letter 
upon  Lizzie.  "I  couldn't  bear  to  see  it  lying  on  the  table 
with  the  others." 

It  was  Deering's  letter  from  the  steamer.  Lizzie 
blushed  to  the  forehead,  but  without  resenting  An- 
dora's  divination.  She  could  not  have  breathed  a  word 
of  her  bliss,  but  she  was  not  sorry  to  have  it  guessed, 
and  pity  for  Andora's  destitution  yielded  to  the 
pleasure  of  using  it  as  a  mirror  for  her  own  abundance. 

Deering  wrote  again  on  reaching  New  York,  a  long 
fond  dissatisfied  letter,  vague  in  its  indication  to  his 
own  projects,  specific  in  the  expression  of  his  love. 
Lizzie  brooded  over  every  syllable  till  they  formed  the 
undercurrent  of  all  her  waking  thoughts,  and  murmured 
through  her  midnight  dreams;  but  she  would  have  been 
happier  if  they  had  shed  some  definite  light  on  the 
future. 

That  would  come,  no  doubt,  when  he  had  had  time 
to  look  about  and  get  his  bearings.  She  counted  up 
the  days  that  must  elapse  before  she  received  his  next 
[  399  ] 


THE  LETTERS 

letter,  and  stole  down  early  to  peep  at  the  papers,  and 
learn  when  the  next  American  mail  was  due.  At  length 
the  happy  date  arrived,  and  she  hurried  distractedly 
through  the  day's  work,  trying  to  conceal  her  impa- 
tience by  the  endearments  she  bestowed  upon  her 
pupils.  It  was  easier,  in  her  present  mood,  to  kiss  them 
than  to  keep  them  at  their  grammars. 

That  evening,  on  Mme.  Clopin's  threshold,  her  heart 
beat  so  wildly  that  she  had  to  lean  a  moment  against 
the  door-post  before  entering.  But  on  the  hall  table, 
where  the  letters  lay,  there  was  none  for  her. 

She  went  over  them  with  an  impatient  hand,  her  heart 
dropping  down  and  down,  as  she  had  sometimes  fallen 
down  an  endless  stairway  in  a  dream — the  very  same 
stairway  up  which  she  had  seemed  to  fly  when  she 
climbed  the  long  hill  to  Deering's  door.  Then  it  struck 
her  that  Andora  might  have  found  and  secreted  her 
letter,  and  with  a  spring  she  was  on  the  actual  stairs, 
and  rattling  Miss  Macy's  door-handle. 

"You've  a  letter  for  me,  haven't  you?"  she  panted. 

Miss  Macy  enclosed  her  in  attenuated  arms.  "Oh, 
darling,  did  you  expect  another?" 

"Do  give  it  to  me!"  Lizzie  pleaded  with  eager  eyes. 

"But  I  haven't  any!  There  hasn't  been  a  sign  of  a 
letter  for  you." 

"I  know  there  is.  There  must  be,"  Lizzie  cried, 
stamping  her  foot. 

[  400  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

"But,  dearest,  I've  watcJied  for  you,  and  there's  been 
nothing." 

Day  after  day,  for  the  ensuing  weeks,  the  same  scene 
re-enacted  itself  with  endless  variations.  Lizzie,  after 
the  first  sharp  spasm  of  disappointment,  made  no 
effort  to  conceal  her  anxiety  from  Miss  Macy,  and  the 
fond  Andora  was  charged  to  keep  a  vigilant  eye  upon 
the  postman's  coming,  and  to  spy  on  the  bonne  for 
possible  negligence  or  perfidy.  But  these  elaborate  pre- 
cautions remained  fruitless,  and  no  letter  from  Deering 
came. 

During  the  first  fortnight  of  silence,  Lizzie  exhausted 
all  the  ingenuities  of  explanation.  She  marvelled  after- 
ward at  the  reasons  she  had  found  for  Deering's  silence: 
there  were  moments  when  she  almost  argued  herself 
into  thinking  it  more  natural  than  his  continuing  to 
write.  There  was  only  one  reason  which  her  intelligence 
rejected ;  and  that  was  the  possibility  that  he  had  for- 
gotten her,  that  the  whole  episode  had  faded  from  his 
mind  like  a  breath  from  a  mirror.  From  that  she  res- 
olutely averted  her  thoughts,  conscious  that  if  she 
suffered  herself  to  contemplate  it,  the  motive  power  of 
life  wrould  fail,  and  she  would  no  longer  understand 
why  she  rose  in  the  morning  and  lay  down  at  night. 

If  she  had  had  leisure  to  indulge  her  anguish  she 
might  have  been  unable  to  keep  such  speculations  at 
bay.  But  she  had  to  be  up  and  working:  the  blanchis- 
[  401  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

sense  had  to  be  paid,  and  Mme.  Clopin's  weekly  bill, 
and  all  the  little  "extras"  that  even  her  frugal  habits 
had  to  reckon  with.  And  in  the  depths  of  her  thought 
dwelt  the  dogging  fear  of  illness  and  incapacity,  goad- 
ing her  to  work  while  she  could.  She  hardly  remem- 
bered the  time  when  she  had  been  without  that  fear; 
it  was  second  nature  now,  and  it  kept  her  on  her  feet 
when  other  incentives  might  have  failed.  In  the  blank- 
ness  of  her  misery  she  felt  no  dread  of  death;  but  the 
horror  of  being  ill  and  "dependent"  was  in  her  blood. 

In  the  first  weeks  of  silence  she  wrote  again  and 
again  to  Deering,  entreating  him  for  a  word,  for  a 
mere  sign  of  life.  From  the  first  she  had  shrunk  from 
seeming  to  assert  any  claim  on  his  future,  yet  in  her 
bewilderment  she  now  charged  herself  with  having 
been  too  possessive,  too  exacting  in  her  tone.  She  told 
herself  that  his  fastidiousness  shrank  from  any  but 
a  "light  touch,"  and  that  hers  had  not  been  light 
enough.  She  should  have  kept  to  the  character  of  the 
"little  friend,"  the  artless  consciousness  in  which  tor- 
mented genius  may  find  an  escape  from  its  complex- 
ities; and  instead,  she  had  dramatised  their  relation, 
exaggerated  her  own  part  in  it,  presumed,  forsooth,  to 
share  the  front  of  the  stage  with  him,  instead  of  being 
content  to  serve  as  scenery  or  chorus. 

But  though,  to  herself,  she  admitted,  and  even  in- 
sisted on>  the  episodical  nature  of  the  experience,  on 
[  402  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

the  fact  that  for  Deering  it  could  be  no  more  than  an 
incident,  she  was  still  convinced  that  his  sentiment  for 
her,  however  fugitive,  had  been  genuine. 

His  had  not  been  the  attitude  of  the  unscrupulous 
male  seeking  a  vulgar  "advantage."  For  a  moment  he 
had  really  needed  her,  and  if  he  was  silent  now,  it  was 
perhaps  because  he  feared  that  she  had  mistaken  the 
nature  of  the  need,  and  built  vain  hopes  on  its  possible 
duration. 

It  was  of  the  essence  of  Lizzie's  devotion  that  it 
sought,  instinctively,  the  larger  freedom  of  its  object; 
she  could  not  conceive  of  love  under  any  form  of 
exaction  or  compulsion.  To  make  this  clear  to  Deering 
became  an  overwhelming  need,  and  in  a  last  short  let- 
ter she  explicitly  freed  him  from  whatever  sentimental 
obligation  its  predecessors  might  have  seemed  to  im- 
pose. In  this  communication  she  playfully  accused 
herself  of  having  unwittingly  sentimentalised  their 
relation,  affecting,  in  self-defence,  a  retrospective  as- 
tuteness, a  sense  of  the  impermanence  of  the  tenderer 
sentiments,  that  almost  put  Deering  in  the  position  of 
having  mistaken  coquetry  for  surrender.  And  she 
ended,  gracefully,  with  a  plea  for  the  continuance  of 
the  friendly  regard  which  she  had  "always  understood" 
to  be  the  basis  of  their  sympathy.  The  document, 
when  completed,  seemed  to  her  worthy  of  what  she 
conceived  to  be  Deering's  conception  of  a  woman  of 
[  403  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

the  world — and  she  found  a  spectral  satisfaction  in  the 
thought  of  making  her  final  appearance  before  him  in 
this  distinguished  character.  But  she  was  never  des- 
tined to  learn  what  effect  the  appearance  produced; 
for  the  letter,  like  those  it  sought  to  excuse,  remained 
unanswered. 

V 

THE  fresh  spring  sunshine  which  had  so  often  attended 
Lizzie  West  on  her  dusty  climb  up  the  hill  of  St.-Cloud, 
beamed  on  her,  some  two  years  later  in  a  scene  and  a 
situation  of  altered  import. 

Its  rays,  filtered  through  the  horse-chestnuts  of  the 
Champs  Elysees,  shone  on  the  gravelled  circle  about 
Laurent's  restaurant;  and  Miss  West,  seated  at  a  table 
within  that  privileged  space,  presented  to  the  light  a 
hat  much  better  able  to  sustain  its  scrutiny  than  those 
which  had  shaded  the  brow  of  Juliet  Deering's  in- 
structress. 

Her  dress  was  in  keeping  with  the  hat,  and  both 
belonged  to  a  situation  rife  with  such  possibilities  as  the 
act  of  a  leisurely  luncheon  at  Laurent's  in  the  opening 
week  of  the  Salon.  Her  companions,  of  both  sexes,  con- 
firmed this  impression  by  an  appropriateness  of  attire 
and  an  ease  of  manner  implying  the  largest  range  of 
selection  between  the  forms  of  Parisian  idleness;  and 
even  Andora  Macy,  seated  opposite,  as  in  the  place  of 
[  404  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

co-hostess  or  companion,  reflected,  in  coy  greys  and 
mauves,  the  festal  note  of  the  occasion. 

This  note  reverberated  persistently  in  the  ears  of  a 
solitary  gentleman  straining  for  glimpses  of  the  group 
from  a  table  wedged  in  the  remotest  corner  of  the  gar- 
den; but  to  Miss  West  herself  the  occurrence  did  not 
rise  above  the  usual.  For  nearly  a  year  she  had  been 
acquiring  the  habit  of  such  situations,  and  the  act  of 
offering  a  luncheon  at  Laurent's  to  her  cousins,  the 
Harvey  Mearses  of  Providence,  and  their  friend  Mr. 
Jackson  Benn,  produced  in  her  no  emotion  beyond 
the  languid  glow  which  Mr.  Benn's  presence  was  be- 
ginning to  impart  to  such  scenes. 

"It's  frightful,  the  way  you've  got  used  to  it,"  An- 
dora  Macy  had  wailed,  in  the  first  days  of  her  friend's 
transfigured  fortunes,  when  Lizzie  West  had  waked  one 
morning  to  find  herself  among  the  heirs  of  an  ancient 
miserly  cousin  whose  testamentary  dispositions  had 
formed,  since  her  earliest  childhood,  the  subject  of  pleas- 
antry and  conjecture  in  her  own  improvident  family. 
Old  Hezron  Mears  had  never  given  any  sign  of  life 
to  the  luckless  Wrests;  had  perhaps  hardly  been  con- 
scious of  including  them  in  the  carefully  drawn  will 
which,  following  the  old  American  convention,  scrupu- 
lously divided  his  millions  among  his  kin.  It  was  by 
a  mere  genealogical  accident  that  Lizzie,  falling  just 
within  the  golden  circle,  found  herself  possessed  of  a 
[  405  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

pittance  sufficient  to  release  her  from  the  prospect  of  a 
long  grey  future  in  Mme.  Clopin's  pension. 

The  release  had  seemed  wonderful  at  first;  yet  she 
presently  found  that  it  had  destroyed  her  former  world 
without  giving  her  a  new  one.  On  the  ruins  of  the  old 
pension  life  bloomed  the  only  flower  that  had  ever 
sweetened  her  path;  and  beyond  the  sense  of  present 
ease,  and  the  removal  of  anxiety  for  the  future,  her  re- 
constructed existence  blossomed  with  no  compensating 
joys.  She  had  hoped  great  things  from  the  opportunity 
to  rest,  to  travel,  to  look  about  her,  above  all,  in  vari- 
ous artful  feminine  ways,  to  be  "nice"  to  the  com- 
panions of  her  less  privileged  state;  but  such  widenings 
of  scope  left  her,  as  it  were,  but  the  more  conscious  of 
the  empty  margin  of  personal  life  beyond  them.  It 
was  not  till  she  woke  to  the  leisure  of  her  new  days 
that  she  had  the  full  sense  of  what  was  gone  from  them. 

Their  very  emptiness  made  her  strain  to  pack  them 
with  transient  sensations:  she  was  like  the  possessor 
of  an  unfurnished  house,  with  random  furniture  and 
bric-a-brac  perpetually  pouring  in  "on  approval."  It 
was  in  this  experimental  character  that  Mr.  Jackson 
Benn  had  fixed  her  attention,  and  the  languid  effort 
of  her  imagination  to  adjust  him  to  her  taste  was 
seconded  by  the  fond  complicity  of  Andora,  and  by 
the  smiling  approval  of  her  cousins.  Lizzie  did  not 
discourage  these  attempts:  she  suffered  serenely  An- 
[  406  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

dora's  allusions  to  Mr.  Benn's  infatuation,  and  Mrs. 
Mears's  boasts  of  his  business  standing.  All  the  better 
if  they  could  drape  his  narrow  square-shouldered  frame 
and  round  unwinking  countenance  in  the  trailing  mists 
of  sentiment:  "Lizzie  looked  and  listened,  not  unhope- 
ful of  the  miracle. 

"I  never  saw  anything  like  the  way  these  French- 
men stare!  Doesn't  it  make  you  nervous,  Lizzie?'* 
Mrs.  Mears  broke  out  suddenly,  ruffling  her  feather 
boa  about  an  outraged  bosom.  Mrs.  Mears  was  still 
in  that  stage  of  development  when  her  country-women 
taste  to  the  full  the  peril  of  being  exposed  to  the  gaze 
of  the  licentious  Gaul. 

Lizzie  roused  herself  from  the  contemplation  of  Mr. 
Benn's  round  baby  cheeks  and  the  square  blue  jaw 
resting  on  his  perpendicular  collar.  "Is  some  one  star- 
ing at  me?"  she  asked. 

"Don't  turn  round,  whatever  you  do!  There — just 
over  there,  between  the  rhododendrons — the  tall  blond 
man  alone  at  that  table.  Really,  Harvey,  I  think  you 
ought  to  speak  to  the  head  waiter,  or  something;  though 
I  suppose  in  one  of  these  places  they'd  only  laugh  at 
you,"  Mrs.  Mears  shudderingly  concluded. 

Her  husband,  as  if  inclining  to  this  probability,  con- 
tinued the  undisturbed  dissection  of  his  chicken  wing, 
but  Mr.  Benn,  perhaps  conscious  that  his  situation  de- 
manded a  more  punctilious  attitude,  sternly  revolved 
[407] 


THE   LETTERS 

upon  the  parapet  of  his  high  collar  in  the  direction  of 
Mrs.  Mears's  glance. 

"What,  that  fellow  all  alone  over  there?  Why,  he's 
not  French;  he's  an  American,"  he  then  proclaimed 
with  a  perceptible  relaxing  of  the  muscles. 

"Oh!"  murmured  Mrs.  Mears,  as  perceptibly  dis- 
appointed, and  Mr.  Benn  continued:  "He  came  over 
on  the  steamer  with  me.  He's  some  kind  of  an  artist 
— a  fellow  named  Deering.  He  was  staring  at  me,  I 
guess:  wondering  whether  I  was  going  to  remember 
him.  Why,  how  d'  'e  do  ?  How  are  you  ?  Why,  yes,  of 
course;  with  pleasure — my  friends,  Mrs.  Harvey  Mears 
— Mr.  Mears;  my  friends,  Miss  Macy  and  Miss 
West." 

"I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Miss  West,"  said 
Vincent  Deering  with  a  smile. 

VI 

EVEN  through  his  smile  Lizzie  had  seen,  in  the  first 
moment,  how  changed  he  was;  and  the  impression  of 
the  change  deepened  to  the  point  of  pain  when,  a  few 
days  later,  in  reply  to  his  brief  note,  she  granted  him 
a  private  hour. 

That  the  first  sight  of  his  writing — the  first  answer 
to   her   letters — should   have   come,   after  three   long 
years,  in  the  shape  of  this  impersonal  line,  too  curt  to 
[  408  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

be  called  humble,  yet  revealing  a  consciousness  of 
the  past  in  the  studied  avoidance  of  its  language!  As 
she  read,  her  mind  flashed  back  over  what  she  had 
dreamed  his  letters  would  be,  over  the  exquisite  an- 
swers she  had  composed  above  his  name.  There  was 
nothing  exquisite  in  the  lines  before  her;  but  dormant 
nerves  began  to  throb  again  at  the  mere  touch  of  the 
paper  he  had  touched,  and  she  threw  the  note  into  the 
fire  before  she  dared  to  reply  to  it. 

Now  that  he  was  actually  before  her  again,  he  be- 
came, as  usual,  the  one  live  spot  in  her  consciousness. 
Once  more  her  tormented  self  sank  back  passive  and 
numb,  but  now  with  all  its  power  of  suffering  mysteri- 
ously transferred  to  the  presence,  so  known  yet  so  un- 
known, at  the  opposite  corner  of  her  hearth.  She  was 
still  Lizzie  West,  and  he  was  still  Vincent  Deering;  but 
the  Styx  rolled  between  them,  and  she  saw  his  face 
through  its  fog.  It  was  his  face,  really,  rather  than  his 
words,  that  told  her,  as  she  furtively  studied  it,  the  tale 
of  failure  and  discouragement  which  had  so  blurred 
its  handsome  lines.  She  kept,  afterward,  no  precise 
memory  of  the  details  of  his  narrative:  the  pain  it  evi- 
dently cost  him  to  impart  it  was  so  much  the  sharpest 
fact  in  her  new  vision  of  him.  Confusedly,  however,  she 
gathered  that  on  reaching  America  he  had  found  his 
wife's  small  property  gravely  impaired;  and  that,  while 
lingering  on  to  secure  what  remained  of  it,  he  had 
[  409  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

contrived  to  sell  a  picture  or  two,  and  had  even  known 
a  moment  of  success,  during  which  he  received  orders 
and  set  up  a  studio.  Then  the  tide  had  ebbed,  his  work 
had  remained  on  his  hands,  and  a  tedious  illness,  with 
its  miserable  sequel  of  debt,  soon  wiped  out  his  advan- 
tage. There  followed  a  period  of  eclipse,  during  which 
she  inferred  that  he  had  tried  his  hand  at  divers  means 
of  livelihood,  accepting  employment  from  a  fashiona- 
ble house-decorator,  designing  wall-papers,  illustrating 
magazine  articles,  and  acting  for  a  time — she  dimly 
understood — as  the  social  tout  of  a  new  hotel  desirous 
of  advertising  its  restaurant.  These  disjointed  facts 
were  strung  on  a  slender  thread  of  personal  allusions 
— references  to  friends  who  had  been  kind  (jealously, 
she  guessed  them  to  be  women),  and  to  enemies  who 
had  schemed  against  him.  But,  true  to  his  tradition  of 
"correctness,"  he  carefully  avoided  the  mention  of 
names,  and  left  her  imagination  to  grope  dimly  through 
a  crowded  world  in  which  there  seemed  little  room  for 
her  small  shy  presence. 

As  she  listened,  her  private  grievance  vanished 
beneath  the  sense  of  his  unhappiness.  Nothing  he  had 
said  explained  or  excused  his  conduct  to  her;  but  he 
had  suffered,  he  had  been  lonely,  had  been  humiliated, 
and  she  felt,  with  a  fierce  maternal  rage,  that  there 
was  no  possible  justification  for  any  scheme  of  things 
in  which  such  facts  were  possible.  She  could  not  have 
[410] 


THE   LETTERS 

said  why :  she  simply  knew  that  it  hurt  too  much  to  see 
him  hurt. 

Gradually  it  came  to  her  that  her  absence  of  resent- 
ment was  due  to  her  having  so  definitely  settled  her 
own  future.  She  was  glad  she  had  decided — as  she  now 
felt  she  had — to  marry  Jackson  Benn,  if  only  for  the 
sense  of  detachment  it  gave  her  in  dealing  with  Vin- 
cent Deering.  Her  personal  safety  insured  her  the  re- 
quisite impartiality,  and  justified  her  in  lingering  as 
long  as  she  chose  over  the  last  lines  of  a  chapter  to 
which  her  own  act  had  fixed  the  close.  Any  lingering 
hesitations  as  to  the  finality  of  this  decision  were  dis- 
pelled by  the  need  of  making  it  known  to  Deering; 
and  when  her  visitor  paused  in  his  remimiscences  to 
say,  with  a  sigh,  "But  many  things  have  happened  to 
you  too,"  the  words  did  not  so  much  evoke  the  sense 
of  her  altered  fortunes  as  the  image  of  the  suitor  to 
whom  she  was  about  to  entrust  them. 

"Yes,  many  things;  it's  three  years,"  she  an- 
swered. 

Deering  sat  leaning  forward,  in  his  sad  exiled  ele- 
gance, his  eyes  gently  bent  on  hers;  and  at  his  side  she 
saw  the  form  of  Mr.  Jackson  Benn,  with  shoulders  pre- 
ternaturally  squared  by  the  cut  of  his  tight  black  coat, 
and  a  tall  shiny  collar  sustaining  his  baby  cheeks  and 
hard  blue  chin.  Then  the  vision  faded  as  Deering 
began  to  speak. 

[411  ] 


THE  LETTERS 

"Three  years,"  he  repeated  musingly.  "I've  so  often 
wondered  what  they'd  brought  you." 

She  lifted  her  head  with  a  blush,  and  the  terrified 
wish  that  he  should  not — at  the  cost  of  all  his  notions 
of  correctness — lapse  into  the  blunder  of  becoming 
"personal." 

"You've  wondered?"  she  smiled  back  bravely. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  haven't?"  His  look  dwelt  on 
her.  "Yes,  I  dare  say  that  was  what  you  thought  of 
me." 

She  had  her  answer  pat — "Why,  frankly,  you  know, 
I  didn't  think  of  you  at  all."  But  the  mounting  tide  of 
her  memories  swept  it  indignantly  away.  If  it  was  his 
correctness  to  ignore,  it  could  never  be  hers  to  disavow! 

"Was  that  what  you  thought  of  me?"  she  heard 
him  repeat  in  a  tone  of  sad  insistence;  and  at  that, 
with  a  lift  of  her  head,  she  resolutely  answered :  "How 
could  I  know  what  to  think  ?  I  had  no  word  from  you." 

If  she  had  expected,  and  perhaps  almost  hoped,  that 
this  answer  would  create  a  difficulty  for  him,  the  gaze 
of  quiet  fortitude  with  which  he  met  it  proved  that  she 
had  underestimated  his  resources. 

"No,  you  had  no  word.  I  kept  my  vow,"  he  said. 

"Your  vow?" 

"That  you  shouldn't  have  a  word — not  a  syllable. 
Oh,  I  kept  it  through  everything!" 

Lizzie's  heart  was  sounding  in  her  ears  the  old 
[412  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

confused  rumour  of  the  sea  of  life,  but  through  it  she 
desperately  tried  to  distinguish  the  still  small  voice  of 
reason. 

"What  was  your  vow?  Why  shouldn't  I  have  had  a 
syllable  from  you  ?  " 

He  sat  motionless,  still  holding  her  with  a  look  so 
gentle  that  it  almost  seemed  forgiving. 

Then,  abruptly,  he  rose,  and  crossing  the  space  be- 
tween them,  sat  down  in  a  chair  at  her  side.  The 
movement  might  have  implied  a  forgetfulness  of 
changed  conditions,  and  Lizzie,  as  if  thus  viewing  it, 
drew  slightly  back;  but  he  appeared  not  to  notice  her 
recoil,  and  his  eyes,  at  last  leaving  her  face,  slowly  and 
approvingly  made  the  round  of  the  small  bright 
drawing-room.  "This  is  charming.  Yes,  things  Jiave 
changed  for  you,"  he  said. 

A  moment  before,  she  had  prayed  that  he  might  be 
spared  the  error  of  a  vain  return  upon  the  past.  It  was 
as  if  all  her  retrospective  tenderness,  dreading  to  see 
him  at  such  a  disadvantage,  rose  up  to  protect  him 
from  it.  But  his  evasiveness  exasperated  her,  and  sud- 
denly she  felt  the  desire  to  hold  him  fast,  face  to  face 
with  his  own  words. 

Before  she  could  repeat  her  question,  however,  he 
had  met  her  with  another. 

"You  did  think  of  me,  then  ?  Why  are  you  afraid  to 
tell  me  that  you  did?" 

[413] 


THE   LETTERS 

The  unexpectedness  of  the  challenge  wrung  a  cry 
from  her.  "Didn't  my  letters  tell  you  so  enough?" 

"Ah — your  letters — "  Keeping  her  gaze  on  his  with 
unrelenting  fixity,  she  could  detect  in  him  no  con- 
fusion, not  the  least  quiver  of  a  nerve.  He  only  gazed 
back  at  her  more  sadly. 

"They  went  everywhere  with  me — your  letters,"  he 
said. 

"Yet  you  never  answered  them."  At  last  the  accu- 
sation trembled  to  her  lips. 

"Yet  I  never  answered  them." 

"Did  you  ever  so  much  as  read  them,  I  wonder?" 

All  the  demons  of  self-torture  were  up  in  her  now, 
and  she  loosed  them  on  him  as  if  to  escape  from  their 
rage. 

Deering  hardly  seemed  to  hear  her  question.  He 
merely  shifted  his  attitude,  leaning  a  little  nearer  to 
her,  but  without  attempting,  by  the  least  gesture,  to 
remind  her  of  the  privileges  which  such  nearness  had 
once  implied. 

"There  were  beautiful,  wonderful  things  in  them," 
he  said,  smiling. 

She  felt  herself  stiffen  under  his  smile.  "You've 
waited  three  years  to  tell  me  so!" 

He  looked  at  her  with  grave  surprise.  "And  do  you 
resent  my  telling  you,  even  now  ? " 

His  parries  were  incredible.  They  left  her  with  a 
[  414  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

sense  of  thrusting  at  emptiness,  and  a  desperate,  al- 
most vindictive  desire  to  drive  him  against  the  wall 
and  pin  him  there. 

"No.  Only  I  wonder  you  should  take  the  trouble  to 
tell  me,  when  at  the  time — 

And  now,  with  a  sudden  turn,  he  gave  her  the 
final  surprise  of  meeting  her  squarely  on  her  own 
ground. 

"When  at  the  time  I  didn't?  But  how  could  I — at 
the  time?" 

"Why  couldn't  you?  You've  not  yet  told  me." 

He  gave  her  again  his  look  of  disarming  patience. 
"Do  I  need  to?  Hasn't  my  whole  WTetched  story  told 
you?" 

"Told  me  why  you  never  answered  my  letters?" 

"Yes — since  I  could  only  answer  them  in  one  way: 
by  protesting  my  love  and  my  longing." 

There  was  a  pause,  of  resigned  expectancy  on  his 
part,  on  hers  of  a  wild,  confused  reconstruction  of  her 
shattered  past.  "You  mean,  then,  that  you  didn't  write 
because — 

"Because  I  found,  when  I  reached  America,  that  I 
was  a  pauper;  that  my  wife's  money  was  gone,  and 
that  what  I  could  earn — I've  so  little  gift  that  way!— 
was  barely  enough  to  keep  Juliet  clothed  and  educated. 
It  was  as  if  an  iron  door  had  been  locked  and  barred 
between  us." 

[415  ] 


THE  LETTERS 

Lizzie  felt  herself  driven  back,  panting,  on  the  last 
defences  of  her  incredulity.  "You  might  at  least  have 
told  me — have  explained.  Do  you  think  I  shouldn't  have 
understood  ?" 

He  did  not  hesitate.  "You  would  have  understood. 
It  wasn't  that." 

"What  was  it  then?"  she  quavered. 

"It's  wonderful  you  shouldn't  see!  Simply  that  I 
couldn't  write  you  that.  Anything  else — not  that!" 

"And  so  you  preferred  to  let  me  suffer?" 

There  was  a  shade  of  reproach  in  his  eyes.  "I  suf- 
fered too,"  he  said. 

It  was  his  first  direct  appeal  to  her  compassion,  and 
for  a  moment  it  nearly  unsettled  the  delicate  poise  of 
her  sympathies,  and  sent  them  trembling  in  the  direc- 
tion of  scorn  and  irony.  But  even  as  the  impulse  rose 
it  was  stayed  by  another  sensation.  Once  again,  as  so 
often  in  the  past,  she  became  aware  of  a  fact  which, 
in  his  absence,  she  always  failed  to  reckon  with;  the 
fact  of  the  deep  irreducible  difference  between  his 
image  in  her  mind  and  his  actual  self — the  mysterious 
alteration  in  her  judgment  produced  by  the  inflections 
of  his  voice,  the  look  of  his  eyes,  the  whole  complex 
pressure  of  his  personality.  She  had  phrased  it  once, 
self-reproachfully,  by  saying  to  herself  that  she  "never 
could  remember  him — "  so  completely  did  the  sight  of 
him  supersede  the  counterfeit  about  which  her  fancy 
[  416  ] 


THE  LETTERS 

wove  its  perpetual  wonders.  Bright  and  breathing  as 
that  counterfeit  was,  it  became  a  figment  of  the  mind 
at  the  touch  of  his  presence,  and  on  this  occasion  the 
immediate  result  was  to  cause  her  to  feel  his  possible 
unhappiness  with  an  intensity  beside  which  her  private 
injury  paled. 

"I  suffered  horribly,"  he  repeated,  "and  all  the 
more  that  I  couldn't  make  a  sign,  couldn't  cry  out 
my  misery.  There  was  only  one  escape  from  it  all — 
to  hold  my  tongue,  and  pray  that  you  might  hate 
me." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Lizzie's  forehead.  "Hate  you 
—you  prayed  that  I  might  hate  you  ? " 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  moving  closer,  lifted  her 
hand  in  his.  "Yes;  because  your  letters  showed  me  that 
if  you  didn't,  you'd  be  unhappier  still." 

Her  hand  lay  motionless,  with  the  warmth  of  his 
flowing  through  it,  and  her  thoughts,  too — her  poor 
fluttering  stormy  thoughts — felt  themselves  suddenly 
penetrated  by  the  same  soft  current  of  communion. 

"And  I  meant  to  keep  my  resolve,"  he  went  on, 
slowly  releasing  his  clasp.  "I  meant  to  keep  it  even 
after  the  random  stream  of  things  swept  me  back  here, 
in  your  way;  but  when  I  saw  you  the  other  day  I  felt 
that  what  had  been  possible  at  a  distance  was  impossi- 
ble now  that  we  were  near  each  other.  How  could  I 
see  you,  and  let  you  hate  me?" 
[417  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

He  had  moved  away,  but  not  to  resume  his  seat.  He 
merely  paused  at  a  little  distance,  his  hand  resting  on 
a  chair-back,  in  the  transient  attitude  that  precedes 
departure. 

Lizzie's  heart  contracted.  He  was  going,  then,  and 
this  was  his  farewell.  He  was  going,  and  she  could  find 
no  word  to  detain  him  but  the  senseless  stammer:  "I 
never  hated  you." 

He  considered  her  with  a  faint  smile.  "It's  not  neces- 
sary, at  any  rate,  that  you  should  do  so  now.  Time 
and  circumstances  have  made  me  so  harmless — that's 
exactly  why  I've  dared  to  venture  back.  And  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  how  I  rejoice  in  your  good  fortune.  It's  the 
only  obstacle  between  us  that  I  can't  bring  myself  to 
wish  away." 

Lizzie  sat  silent,  spell-bound,  as  she  listened,  by  the 
sudden  evocation  of  Mr.  Jackson  Benn.  He  stood  there 
again,  between  herself  and  Deering,  perpendicular  and 
reproachful,  but  less  solid  and  sharply  outlined  than 
before,  with  a  look  in  his  small  hard  eyes  that  desper- 
ately wailed  for  re-embodiment. 

Deering  was  continuing  his  farewell  speech.  "You're 
rich  now — you're  free.  You  will  marry."  She  saw  him 
holding  out  his  hand. 

"It's  not  true  that  I'm  engaged!"  she  broke  out. 
They  were  the  last  words  she  had  meant  to  utter;  they 
were  hardly  related  to  her  conscious  thoughts;  but  she 
[  418  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

felt  her  whole  will  gathered  up  in  the  irrepressible  im- 
pulse to  repudiate  and  fling  away  from  her  forever  the 
spectral  claim  of  Mr.  Jackson  Benn. 


VII 

IT  was  the  firm  conviction  of  Andora  Macy  that  every 
object  in  the  Vincent  Deerings'  charming  little  house 
at  Neuilly  had  been  expressly  designed  for  the  Deer- 
ings'  son  to  play  with. 

The  house  was  full  of  pretty  things,  some  not  ob- 
viously applicable  to  the  purpose;  but  Miss  Macy's 
casuistry  was  equal  to  the  baby's  appetite,  and  the 
baby's  mother  was  no  match  for  them  in  the  art  of 
defending  her  possessions.  There  were  moments,  in 
fact,  when  she  almost  fell  in  with  Andora's  sum- 
mary division  of  her  works  of  art  into  articles  safe  or 
unsafe  for  the  baby  to  lick,  or  resisted  it  only  to  the 
extent  of  occasionally  substituting  some  less  precious, 
or  less  perishable,  object  for  the  particular  fragility  on 
which  her  son's  desire  was  fixed.  And  it  was  with  this 
intention  that,  on  a  certain  spring  morning — which 
wore  the  added  lustre  of  being  the  baby's  second  birth- 
day— she  had  murmured,  with  her  mouth  in  his  curls, 
and  one  hand  holding  a  bit  of  Chelsea  above  his 
clutch:  "Wouldn't  he  rather  have  that  beautiful  shiny 
thing  in  Aunt  Andora's  hand?" 
[419] 


THE   LETTERS 

The  two  friends  were  together  in  Lizzie's  morning- 
room — the  room  she  had  chosen,  on  acquiring  the 
house,  because,  when  she  sat  there,  she  could  hear 
Deering's  step  as  he  paced  up  and  down  before  his 
easel  in  the  studio  she  had  built  for  him.  His  step  had 
been  less  regularly  audible  than  she  had  hoped,  for, 
after  three  years  of  wedded  bliss,  he  had  somehow 
failed  to  settle  down  to  the  great  work  which  was  to 
result  from  that  state;  but  even  when  she  did  not  hear 
him  she  knew  that  he  was  there,  above  her  head, 
stretched  out  on  the  old  divan  from  St.-Cloud,  and 
smoking  countless  cigarettes  while  he  skimmed  the 
morning  papers;  and  the  sense  of  his  nearness  had  not 
yet  lost  its  first  keen  edge  of  wonder. 

Lizzie  herself,  on  the  day  in  question,  was  engaged 
in  a  more  arduous  task  than  the  study  of  the  morning's 
news.  She  had  never  unlearned  the  habit  of  orderly 
activity,  and  the  trait  she  least  understood  in  her  hus- 
band's character  was  his  way  of  letting  the  loose  ends 
of  life  hang  as  they  would.  She  had  been  disposed  to 
ascribe  this  to  the  chronic  incoherence  of  his  first 
menage;  but  now  she  knew  that,  though  he  basked 
under  her  beneficent  rule,  he  would  never  feel  any  im- 
pulse to  further  its  work.  He  liked  to  see  things  fall 
into  place  about  him  at  a  wave  of  her  wand;  but  his 
enjoyment  of  her  household  magic  in  no  way  dimin- 
ished his  smiling  irresponsibility,  and  it  was  with  one 
[  420  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

of  its  least  amiable  consequences  that  his  wife  and  her 
friend  were  now  dealing. 

Before  them  stood  two  travel-worn  trunks  and  a  dis- 
tended portmanteau,  which  had  shed  their  heterogene- 
ous contents  over  Lizzie's  rosy  carpet.  They  represented 
the  hostages  left  by  her  husband  on  his  somewhat 
precipitate  departure  from  a  New  York  boarding- 
house,  and  redeemed  by  her  on  her  learning,  in  a  curt 
letter  from  his  landlady,  that  the  latter  was  not  dis- 
posed to  regard  them  as  an  equivalent  for  the  arrears  of 
Deering's  board. 

Lizzie  had  not  been  shocked  by  the  discovery  that 
her  husband  had  left  America  in  debt.  She  had  too  sad 
an  acquaintance  with  the  economic  strain  to  see  any 
humiliation  in  such  accidents;  but  it  offended  her 
sense  of  order  that  he  should  not  have  liquidated  his 
obligation  in  the  three  years  since  their  marriage.  He 
took  her  remonstrance  with  his  usual  good  humour, 
and  left  her  to  forward  the  liberating  draft,  though  her 
delicacy  had  provided  him  with  a  bank-account  which 
assured  his  personal  independence.  Lizzie  had  dis- 
charged the  duty  without  repugnance,  since  she  knew 
that  his  delegating  it  to  her  was  the  result  of  his  indo- 
lence and  not  of  any  design  on  her  exchequer.  Deer- 
ing  was  not  dazzled  by  money;  his  altered  fortunes  had 
tempted  him  to  no  excesses:  he  was  simply  too  lazy  to 
[421] 


THE   LETTERS 

draw  the  cheque,  as  he  had  been  too  lazy  to  remember 
the  debt  it  cancelled. 

"No,  dear!  No!"  Lizzie  lifted  the  Chelsea  higher. 
"Can't  you  find  something  for  him,  Andora,  among 
that  rubbish  over  there  ?  Where's  the  beaded  bag  you 
had  in  your  hand  ?  I  don't  think  it  could  hurt  him  to 
lick  that." 

Miss  Macy,  bag  in  hand,  rose  from  her  knees,  and 
stumbled  across  the  room  through  the  frayed  garments 
and  old  studio  properties.  Before  the  group  of  mother 
and  son  she  fell  into  a  rapturous  attitude. 

"Do  look  at  him  reach  for  it,  the  tyrant!  Isn't  he 
just  like  the  young  Napoleon  ?  " 

Lizzie  laughed  and  swung  her  son  in  air.  "Dangle 
it  before  him,  Andora.  If  you  let  him  have  it  too  quickly, 
he  won't  care  for  it.  He's  just  like  any  man,  I  think." 

Andora  slowly  lowered  the  bag  till  the  heir  of  the 
Deerings  closed  his  masterful  fist  upon  it.  "There — my 
Chelsea's  safe!"  Lizzie  smiled,  setting  her  boy  on  the 
floor,  and  watching  him  stagger  away  with  his  booty. 

Andora  stood  beside  her,  watching  too.  "Do  you 
know  where  that  bag  came  from,  Lizzie?" 

Mrs.  Deering,  bent  above  a  pile  of  discollared  shirts, 
shook  an  inattentive  head.  "I  never  saw  such  wicked 
washing!  There  isn't  one  that's  fit  to  mend.  The  bag? 
No;   I've  not  the  least  idea." 
[  422  ] 


THE  LETTERS 

Andora  surveyed  her  incredulously.  "Doesn't  it  make 
you  utterly  miserable  to  think  that  some  woman  may 
have  made  it  for  him  ?  " 

Lizzie,  still  bowed  in  scrutiny  above  the  shirts,  broke 
into  a  laugh.  "Really,  Andora,  really!  Six,  seven,  nine; 
no,  there  isn't  even  a  dozen.  There  isn't  a  whole  dozen 
of  anything.  I  don't  see  how  men  live  alone. " 

Andora  broodingly  pursued  her  theme.  "  Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  it  doesn't  make  you  jealous  to  handle  these 
things  of  his  that  other  women  may  have  given  him?" 

Lizzie  shook  her  head  again,  and,  straightening  her- 
self with  a  smile,  tossed  a  bundle  in  her  friend's  direc- 
tion. "No,  I  don't  feel  jealous.  Here,  count  these  socks 
for  me,  like  a  darling." 

Andora  moaned  "Don't  you  feel  anything  at  all?" 
as  the  socks  landed  in  her  hollow  bosom;  but  Lizzie, 
intent  upon  her  task,  tranquilly  continued  to  unfold 
and  sort.  She  felt  a  great  deal  as  she  did  so,  but  her 
feelings  were  too  deep  and  delicate  for  the  simplifying 
processes  of  speech.  She  only  knew  that  each  article 
she  drew  from  the  trunks  sent  through  her  the  long 
tremor  of  Deering's  touch.  It  was  part  of  her  wonder- 
ful new  life  that  everything  belonging  to  him  contained 
an  infinitesimal  fraction  of  himself — a  fraction  becom- 
ing visible  in  the  warmth  of  her  love  as  certain  secret 
elements  become  visible  in  rare  intensities  of  tempera- 
ture. And  in  the  case  of  the  objects  before  her,  poor 
[  423  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

shabby  witnesses  of  his  days  of  failure,  what  they  gave 
out  acquired  a  special  poignancy  from  its  contrast  to 
his  present  cherished  state.  His  shirts  were  all  in  round 
dozens  now,  and  washed  as  carefully  as  old  lace.  As 
for  his  socks,  she  knew  the  pattern  of  every  pair,  and 
would  have  liked  to  see  the  washerwoman  who  dared 
to  mislay  one,  or  bring  it  home  with  the  colours  "run"! 
And  in  these  homely  tokens  of  his  well-being  she  saw 
the  symbol  of  what  her  tenderness  had  brought  him. 
He  was  safe  in  it,  encompassed  by  it,  morally  and  ma- 
terially, and  she  defied  the  embattled  powers  of  malice 
to  reach  him  through  the  armour  of  her  love.  Such 
feelings,  however,  were  not  communicable,  even  had 
one  desired  to  express  them:  they  were  no  more  to  be 
distinguished  from  the  sense  of  life  itself  than  bees 
from  the  lime-blossoms  in  which  they  murmur. 

"Oh,  do  look  at  him,  Lizzie!  He's  found  out  how  to 
open  the  bag!" 

Lizzie  lifted  her  head  to  look  a  moment  at  her  son, 
throned  on  a  heap  of  studio  rubbish,  with  Andora 
before  him  on  adoring  knees.  She  thought  vaguely 
"Poor  Andora!"  and  then  resumed  the  discouraged 
inspection  of  a  buttonless  white  waistcoat.  The  next 
sound  she  was  conscious  of  was  an  excited  exclamation 
from  her  friend. 

"Why,  Lizzie,  do  you  know  what  he  used  the  bag 
for?  To  keep  your  letters  in!" 
[  424  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

Lizzie  looked  up  more  quickly.  She  was  aware  that 
Andora's  pronoun  had  changed  its  object,  and  was 
now  applied  to  Deering.  And  it  struck  her  as  odd,  and 
slightly  disagreeable,  that  a  letter  of  hers  should  be 
found  among  the  rubbish  abandoned  in  her  husband's 
New  York  lodgings. 

"How  funny!  Give  it  to  me,  please." 

"Give  it  to  Aunt  Andora,  darling!  Here — look  inside, 
and  see  what  else  a  big,  big  boy  can  find  there! — Yes, 
here's  another!  Why,  why — 

Lizzie  rose  with  a  shade  of  impatience  and  crossed 
the  floor  to  the  romping  group  beside  the  other  trunk. 

"What  is  it?  Give  me  the  letters,  please."  As  she 
spoke,  she  suddenly  recalled  the  day  when,  in  Mme. 
Clopin's  pension,  she  had  addressed  a  similar  behest 
to  Andora  Macy. 

Andora  lifted  to  her  a  look  of  startled  conjecture. 
"Why,  this  one's  never  been  opened!  Do  you  suppose 
that  awful  woman  could  have  kept  it  from  him?" 

Lizzie  laughed.  Andora's  imaginings  were  really 
puerile!  "What  awful  woman?  His  landlady?  Don't 
be  such  a  goose,  Andora.  How  can  it  have  been  kept 
back  from  him,  when  we've  found  it  among  his 
things?" 

"Yes;   but  then  why  was  it  never  opened?" 

Andora  held  out  the  letter,  and  Lizzie  took  it.  The 
writing  was  hers;  the  envelope  bore  the  Passy  post- 
[425  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

mark;  and  it  was  unopened.  She  looked  at  it  with  a 
sharp  drop  of  the  heart. 

"Why,  so  are  the  others — all  unopened!"  Andora 
threw  out  on  a  rising  note;  but  Lizzie,  stooping  over, 
checked  her. 

"Give  them  to  me,  please." 

"Oh,  Lizzie,  Lizzie — "  Andora,  on  her  knees,  held 
back  the  packet,  her  pale  face  paler  with  anger  and 
compassion.  "Lizzie,  they're  the  letters  I  used  to  post 
for  you — the  letters  he  never  answered !  Look ! " 

"Give  them  back  to  me,  please."  Lizzie  possessed 
herself  of  the  letters. 

The  two  women  faced  each  other,  Andora  still  kneel- 
ing, Lizzie  motionless  before  her.  The  blood  had  rushed 
to  her  face,  humming  in  her  ears,  and  forcing  itself  into 
the  veins  of  her  temples.  Then  it  ebbed,  and  she  felt 
cold  and  weak. 

"It  must  have  been  some  plot — some  conspiracy," 
Andora  cried,  so  fired  by  the  ecstasy  of  invention  that 
for  the  moment  she  seemed  lost  to  all  but  the  aesthetic 
aspect  of  the  case. 

Lizzie  averted  her  eyes  with  an  effort,  and  they 
rested  on  the  boy,  who  sat  at  her  feet  placidly  sucking 
the  tassels  of  the  bag.  His  mother  stooped  and  extracted 
them  from  his  rosy  mouth,  which  a  cry  of  wrath  im- 
mediately filled.  She  lifted  him  in  her  arms,  and  for 
the  first  time  no  current  of  life  ran  from  his  body  into 
[  426  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

hers.  He  felt  heavy  and  clumsy,  like  some  other 
woman's  child;  and  his  screams  annoyed  her. 

"Take  him  away,  please,  Andora." 

"Oh,  Lizzie,  Lizzie!"  Andora  wailed. 

Lizzie  held  out  the  child,  and  Andora,  struggling  to 
her  feet,  received  him. 

"I  know  just  how  you  feel,"  she  gasped,  above  the 
baby's  head. 

Lizzie,  in  some  dark  hollow  of  herself,  heard  the 
faint  echo  of  a  laugh.  Andora  always  thought  she 
knew  how  people  felt! 

"Tell  Marthe  to  take  him  with  her  when  she  fetches 
Juliet  home  from  school." 

"Yes,  yes."  Andora  gloated  on  her.  "If  you'd  only 
give  way,  my  darling!" 

The  baby,  howling,  dived  over  Andora 's  shoulder 
for  the  bag. 

"Oh,  take  him!"  his  mother  ordered. 

Andora,  from  the  door,  cried  out:  "I'll  be  back  at 
once.  Remember,  love,  you're  not  alone!" 

But  Lizzie  insisted,  "Go  with  them — I  wish  you  to 
go  with  them,"  in  the  tone  to  which  Miss  Macy  had 
never  learned  the  answer. 

The  door  closed  on  her  reproachful  back,  and  Lizzie 

stood  alone.  She  looked  about  the  disordered  room, 

which  offered  a  dreary  image  of  the  havoc  of  her  life. 

An  hour  or  two  ago,  everything  about  her  had  been  so 

[  427  ] 


THE  LETTERS 

exquisitely  ordered,  without  and  within:  her  thoughts 
and  her  emotions  had  all  been  outspread  before  her 
like  jewels  laid  away  symmetrically  in  a  collector's 
cabinet.  Now  they  had  been  tossed  down  helter-skel- 
ter among  the  rubbish  there  on  the  floor,  and  had 
themselves  turned  to  rubbish  like  the  rest.  Yes, 
there  lay  her  life  at  her  feet,  among  all  that  tarnished 
trash. 

She  picked  up  her  letters,  ten  in  all,  and  examined 
the  flaps  of  the  envelopes.  Not  one  had  been  opened 
— not  one.  As  she  looked,  every  word  she  had  written 
fluttered  to  life,  and  every  feeling  prompting  it  sent  a 
tremor  through  her.  With  vertiginous  speed  and  micro- 
scopic distinctness  of  vision  she  was  reliving  that  whole 
period  of  her  life,  stripping  bare  again  the  ruin  over 
which  the  drift  of  three  happy  years  had  fallen. 

She  laughed  at  Andora's  notion  of  a  conspiracy — of 
the  letters  having  been  "kept  back."  She  required  no 
extraneous  aid  in  deciphering  the  mystery:  her  three 
years'  experience  of  Deering  shed  on  it  all  the  light  she 
needed.  And  yet  a  moment  before  she  had  believed 
herself  to  be  perfectly  happy!  Now  it  was  the  worst 
part  of  her  pain  that  it  did  not  really  surprise  her. 

She  knew  so  well  how  it  must  have  happened.  The 

letters  had  reached  him  when  he  was  busy,  occupied 

with  something  else,  and  had  been  put  aside  to  be  read 

at  some  future  time — a  time  which  never  came.  Per- 

[  428  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

haps  on  the  steamer,  even,  he  had  met  "some  one  else" 
— the  "some  one"  who  lurks,  veiled  and  ominous,  in 
the  background  of  every  woman's  thoughts  about  her 
lover.  Or  perhaps  he  had  been  merely  forgetful.  She 
knew  now  that  the  sensations  which  he  seemed  to  feel 
most  intensely  left  no  reverberations  in  his  memory — 
that  he  did  not  relive  either  his  pleasures  or  his  pains. 
She  needed  no  better  proof  than  the  lightness  of  his 
conduct  toward  his  daughter.  He  seemed  to  have  taken 
it  for  granted  that  Juliet  would  remain  indefinitely 
with  the  friends  who  had  received  her  after  her  mother's 
death,  and  it  was  at  Lizzie's  suggestion  that  the  little 
girl  was  brought  home  and  that  they  had  established 
themselves  at  Neuilly  to  be  near  her  school.  But  Juliet 
once  with  them,  he  became  the  model  of  a  tender 
father,  and  Lizzie  wondered  that  he  had  not  felt  the 
child's  absence,  since  he  seemed  so  affectionately  aware 
of  her  presence. 

Lizzie  had  noted  all  this  in  Juliet's  case,  but  had 
taken  for  granted  that  her  own  was  different;  that  she 
formed,  for  Deering,  the  exception  which  every  woman 
secretly  supposes  herself  to  form  in  the  experience  of 
the  man  she  loves.  She  had  learned  by  this  time  that  she 
could  not  modify  his  habits;  but  she  imagined  that  she 
had  deepened  his  sensibilities,  had  furnished  him  with 
an  "ideal" — angelic  function!  And  she  now  saw  that 
the  fact  of  her  letters— her  unanswered  letters— having, 
on  his  own  assurance,  "meant  so  much"  to  him,  had 
[  429  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

been  the  basis  on  which  this  beautiful  fabric  was 
reared. 

There  they  lay  now,  the  letters,  precisely  as  when 
they  had  left  her  hands.  He  had  not  had  time  to  read 
them;  and  there  had  been  a  moment  in  her  past  when 
that  discovery  would  have  been  to  her  the  sharpest 
pang  imaginable.  She  had  travelled  far  beyond  that 
point.  She  could  have  forgiven  him  now  for  having 
forgotten  her;  but  she  could  never  forgive  him  for  hav- 
ing deceived  her. 

She  sat  down,  and  looked  again  about  the  room. 
Suddenly  she  heard  his  step  overhead,  and  her  heart 
contracted.  She  was  afraid  that  he  was  coming  down 
to  her.  She  sprang  up  and  bolted  the  door;  then  she 
dropped  into  the  nearest  chair,  tremulous  and  ex- 
hausted, as  if  the  act  had  required  an  immense  effort. 
A  moment  later  she  heard  him  on  the  stairs,  and  her 
tremor  broke  into  a  fit  of  shaking.  "I  loathe  you — I 
loathe  you!"  she  cried. 

She  listened  apprehensively  for  his  touch  on  the 
handle  of  the  door.  He  would  come  in,  humming  a 
tune,  to  ask  some  idle  question  and  lay  a  caress  on  her 
hair.  But  no,  the  door  was  bolted;  she  was  safe.  She 
continued  to  listen,  and  the  step  passed  on.  He  had 
not  been  coming  to  her,  then.  He  must  have  gone  down- 
stairs to  fetch  something — another  newspaper,  perhaps. 
He  seemed  to  read  little  else,  and  she  sometimes  won- 
dered when  he  had  found  time  to  store  the  material 
[  430  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

that  used  to  serve  for  their  famous  "literary"  talks. 
The  wonder  shot  through  her  again,  barbed  with  a 
sneer.  At  that  moment  it  seemed  to  her  that  every- 
thing he  had  ever  done  and  been  was  a  lie. 

She  heard  the  house  door  close,  and  started  up.  Was 
he  going  out  ?  It  was  not  his  habit  to  leave  the  house  in 
the  morning. 

She  crossed  the  room  to  the  window,  and  saw  him 
walking,  with  a  quick  decided  step,  between  the  lilacs 
to  the  gate.  What  could  have  called  him  forth  at  that 
unusual  hour  ?  It  was  odd  that  he  should  not  have  told 
her.  The  fact  that  she  thought  it  odd  suddenly  showed 
her  how  closely  their  lives  were  interwoven.  She  had 
become  a  habit  to  him,  and  he  was  fond  of  his  habits. 
But  to  her  it  was  as  if  a  stranger  had  opened  the  gate 
and  gone  out.  She  wondered  what  he  would  feel  if  he 
knew  that  she  felt  that. 

"In  an  hour  he  will  know,"  she  said  to  herself,  with 
a  kind  of  fierce  exultation;  and  immediately  she  began 
to  dramatise  the  scene.  As  soon  as  he  came  in  she 
meant  to  call  him  up  to  her  room  and  hand  him  the 
letters  without  a  word.  For  a  moment  she  gloated  on 
the  picture;  then  her  imagination  recoiled.  She  was 
humiliated  by  the  thought  of  humiliating  him.  She 
wanted  to  keep  his  image  intact;  she  would  not  sec  him. 

He  had  lied  to  her  about  her  letters — had  lied  to  her 
when  he  found  it  to  his  interest  to  regain  her  favour. 
[431  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

Yes,  there  was  the  point  to  hold  fast.  He  had  sought 
her  out  when  he  learned  that  she  was  rich.  Perhaps 
he  had  come  back  from  America  on  purpose  to  marry 
her;  no  doubt  he  had  come  back  on  purpose.  It  was 
incredible  that  she  had  not  seen  this  at  the  time.  She 
turned  sick  at  the  thought  of  her  fatuity  and  of  the 
grossness  of  his  arts.  Well,  the  event  proved  that  they 
were  all  he  needed.  .  .  But  why  hau  he  gone  out  at  such 
an  hour?  She  was  irritated  to  find  herself  still  pre- 
occupied by  his  comings  and  goings. 

Turning  from  the  window,  she  sat  down  again.  She 
wondered  what  she  meant  to  do  next.  .  .  No,  she  would 
not  show  him  the  letters;  she  would  simply  leave  them 
on  his  table  and  go  away.  She  would  leave  the  house 
with  her  boy  and  Andora.  It  was  a  relief  to  feel  a  defi- 
nite plan  forming  itself  in  her  mind — something  that 
her  uprooted  thoughts  could  fasten  on.  She  would  go 
away,  of  course;  and  meanwhile,  in  order  not  to  see 
him,  she  would  feign  a  headache,  and  remain  in  her 
room  till  after  luncheon.  Then  she  and  Andora  would 
pack  a  few  things,  and  fly  with  the  child  while  he  was 
dawdling  about  up-stairs  in  the  studio.  When  one's 
house  fell,  one  fled  from  the  ruins:  nothing  could  be 
simpler,  more  inevitable. 

Her  thoughts  were  checked  by  the  impossibility  of 
picturing  what  would  happen  next.  Try  as  she  would, 
she  could  not  see  herself  and  the  child  away  from 
[  432  ] 


THE  LETTERS 

Deering.  But  that,  of  course,  was  because  of  her  ner- 
vous weakness.  She  had  youth,  money,  energy:  all  the 
trumps  were  on  her  side.  It  was  much  more  difficult 
to  imagine  what  would  become  of  Deering.  He  was  so 
dependent  on  her,  and  they  had  been  so  happy  to- 
gether! It  struck  her  as  illogical  and  even  immoral,  and 
yet  she  knew  he  had  been  happy  with  her.  It  never 
happened  like  thUTin  novels:  happiness  "built  on  a  lie" 
always  crumbled,  burying  the  presumptuous  architect 
beneath  its  ruins.  According  to  the  laws  of  fiction, 
Deering,  having  deceived  her  once,  would  inevitably 
have  gone  on  deceiving  her.  Yet  she  knew  he  had  not 
gone  on  deceiving  her.  .  . 

She  tried  again  to  picture  her  new  life.  Her  friends, 
of  course,  would  rally  about  her.  But  the  prospect  left 
her  cold;  she  did  not  want  them  to  rally.  She  wanted 
only  one  thing — the  life  she  had  been  living  before  she 
had  given  her  baby  the  embroidered  bag  to  play  with. 
Oh,  why  had  she  given  him  the  bag  ?  She  had  been  so 
happy,  they  had  all  been  so  happy!  Every  nerve  in  her 
clamoured  for  her  lost  happiness,  angrily,  irrationally, 
as  the  boy  had  clamoured  for  his  bag !  It  was  horrible 
to  know  too  much;  there  was  always  blood  in  the 
foundations.  Parents  "kept  things"  from  children- 
protected  them  from  all  the  dark  secrets  of  pain  and  evil. 
And  was  any  life  livable  unless  it  were  thus  protected  ? 
Could  any  one  look  in  the  Medusa's  face  and  live  ? 
[  433  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

But  why  should  she  leave  the  house,  since  it  was 
hers?  Here,  with  her  boy  and  Andora,  she  could  still 
make  for  herself  the  semblance  of  a  life.  It  was  Deering 
who  would  have  to  go;  he  would  understand  that  as 
soon  as  he  saw  the  letters. 

She  saw  him  going — leaving  the  house  as  he  had 
left  it  just  now.  She  saw  the  gate  closing  on  him  for  the 
last  time.  Now  her  vision  was  acute  enough:  she  saw 
him  as  distinctly  as  if  he  were  in  the  room.  Ah,  he 
would  not  like  returning  to  the  old  life  of  privations 
and  expedients!  And  yet  she  knew  he  would  not  plead 
with  her. 

Suddenly  a  new  thought  seized  her.  What  if  Andora 
had  rushed  to  him  with  the  tale  of  the  discovery  of  the 
letters — with  the  "Fly,  you  are  discovered ! "  of  romantic 
fiction  ?  What  if  he  had  left  her  for  good  ?  It  would  not 
be  unlike  him,  after  all.  For  all  his  sweetness  he  was 
always  evasive  and  inscrutable.  He  might  have  said  to 
himself  that  he  would  forestall  her  action,  and  place 
himself  at  once  on  the  defensive.  It  might  be  that  she 
had  seen  him  go  out  of  the  gate  for  the  last  time. 

She  looked  about  the  room  again,  as  if  the  thought 
had  given  it  a  new  aspect.  Yes,  this  alone  could  explain 
her  husband's  going  out.  It  was  past  twelve  o'clock, 
their  usual  luncheon  hour,  and  he  was  scrupulously 
punctual  at  meals,  and  gently  reproachful  if  she  kept 
him  waiting.  Only  some  unwonted  event  could  have 
[  434  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

caused  him  to  leave  the  house  at  such  an  hour  and 
with  such  marks  of  haste.  Well,  perhaps  it  was  better 
that  Andora  should  have  spoken.  She  mistrusted  her 
own  courage;  she  almost  hoped  the  deed  had  been 
done  for  her.  Yet  her  next  sensation  was  one  of  con- 
fused resentment.  She  said  to  herself  "Why  has  An- 
dora interfered  ?"  She  felt  baffled  and  angry,  as  though 
her  prey  had  escaped  her.  If  Deering  had  been  in  the 
house  she  would  have  gone  to  him  instantly  and  over- 
whelmed him  with  her  scorn.  But  he  had  gone  out, 
and  she  did  not  know  where  he  had  gone,  and  oddly 
mingled  with  her  anger  against  him  was  the  latent  in- 
stinct of  vigilance,  the  solicitude  of  the  woman  accus- 
tomed to  watch  over  the  man  she  loves.  It  would  be 
strange  never  to  feel  that  solicitude  again,  never  to 
hear  him  say,  with  his  hand  on  her  hair:  "You  foolish 
child,  were  you  worried  ?  Am  I  late?" 

The  sense  of  his  touch  was  so  real  that  she  stiffened 
herself  against  it,  flinging  back  her  head  as  if  to  throw 
off  his  hand.  The  mere  thought  of  his  caress  was  hate- 
ful; yet  she  felt  it  in  all  her  veins.  Yes,  she  felt  it,  but 
with  horror  and  repugnance.  It  was  something  she 
wanted  to  escape  from,  and  the  fact  of  struggling 
against  it  was  what  made  its  hold  so  strong.  It  was  as 
though  her  mind  were  sounding  her  body  to  make  sure 
of  its  allegiance,  spying  on  it  for  any  secret  movement 
of  revolt  .  .  . 

[  435  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

To  escape  from  the  sensation,  she  rose  and  went 
again  to  the  window.  No  one  was  in  sight.  But  pres- 
ently the  gate  began  to  swing  back,  and  her  heart  gave 
a  leap — she  knew  not  whether  up  or  down!  A  moment 
later  the  gate  opened  to  admit  a  perambulator,  pro- 
pelled, by  the  nurse  and  flanked  by  Juliet  and  Andora. 
Lizzie's  eyes  rested  on  the  familiar  group  as  if  she  had 
never  seen  it  before,  and  she  stood  motionless,  instead 
of  flying  down  to  meet  the  children. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  step  on  the  stairs,  and  she 
heard  Andora's  knock.  She  unbolted  the  door,  and  was 
strained  to  her  friend's  emaciated  bosom. 

"My  darling!"  Miss  Macy  cried.  "Remember  you 
have  your  child — and  me!" 

Lizzie  loosened  herself.  She  looked  at  Andora  with  a 
feeling  of  estrangement  which  she  could  not  explain. 

"Have  you  spoken  to  my  husband?"  she  asked, 
drawing  coldly  back. 

"Spoken  to  him?  No."  Andora  stared  at  her, 
surprised. 

"Then  you  haven't  met  him  since  he  went  out?" 

"No,  my  love.  Is  he  out?  I  haven't  met  him." 

Lizzie  sat  down  with  a  confused  sense  of  relief, 
which  welled  up  to  her  throat  and  made  speech  diffi- 
cult. 

Suddenly  light  seemed  to  come  to  Andora.  "I  under- 
stand, dearest.  You  don't  feel  able  to  see  him  yourself. 
[  436  ] 


THE   LETTERS 

You  want  me  to  go  to  him  for  you."  She  looked  eagerly 
about  her,  scenting  the  battle.  "You're  right,  darling. 
As  soon  as  he  comes  in,  I'll  go  to  him.  The  sooner  we 
get  it  over,  the  better." 

She  followed  Lizzie,  who  had  turned  restlessly  back 
to  the  window.  As  they  stood  there,  the  gate  moved 
again,  and  Deering  entered. 

"There  he  is  now!"  Lizzie  felt  Andora's  excited 
clutch  upon  her  arm.  "Where  are  the  letters?  I  will  go 
down  at  once.  You  allow  me  to  speak  for  you  ?  You 
trust  my  woman's  heart?  Oh,  believe  me,  darling," 
Miss  Macy  panted,  "I  shall  know  exactly  what  to  say 
to  him!" 

"What  to  say  to  him?"  Lizzie  absently  repeated. 

As  her  husband  advanced  up  the  path  she  had  a 
sudden  vision  of  their  three  years  together.  Those 
years  were  her  whole  life;  everything  before  them  had 
been  colourless  and  unconscious,  like  the  blind  life  of 
the  plant  before  it  reaches  the  surface  of  the  soil.  The 
years  had  not  been  exactly  what  she  had  dreamed; 
but  if  they  had  taken  away  certain  illusions  they  had 
left  richer  realities  in  their  stead.  She  understood  now 
that  she  had  gradually  adjusted  herself  to  the  new 
image  of  her  husband  as  he  was,  as  he  would  always 
be.  He  was  not  the  hero  of  her  dreams,  but  he  was  the 
man  she  loved,  and  who  had  loved  her.  For  she  saw 
now,  in  this  last  wide  flash  of  pity  and  initiation,  that, 
[437] 


THE   LETTERS 

as  a  comely  marble  may  be  made  out  of  worthless  scraps 
of  mortar,  glass,  and  pebbles,  so  out  of  mean  mixed 
substances  may  be  fashioned  a  love  that  will  bear  the 
stress  of  life.  ^ 

More  urgently,  she  felt  the  pressure  of  Miss  Macy's 
hand. 

"I  shall  hand  him  the  letters  without  a  word.  You 
may  rely,  love,  on  my  sense  of  dignity.  I  know  every- 
thing you're  feeling  at  this  moment!" 

Deering  had  reached  the  doorstep.  Lizzie  watched 
him  in  silence  till  he  disappeared  under  the  projecting 
roof  of  the  porch;  then  she  turned  and  looked  almost 
compassionately  at  her  friend. 

"Oh,  poor  Andora,  you  don't  know  anything — you 
don't  know  anything  at  all!"  she  said. 


[  438  ] 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


APR  i  6  1935 

*>Q  \  6  '£3 

Af*3QX1935    r 


1  9  I93r 


DEC  z  9 1944 
SFP  1  5  194E 


^211952 


1  8 '193 
0  t93b 


,- 


DEC  05  1983 


REC*D  LD-URL 
MAY  16 


\f 


1158  00893  2799 


A  A      000134259    1 


